


Tinker, Tailor, Quartermaster, Spy

by Only_1_Truth



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Although it might surprise you who starts the nesting, Because the lack of consent is my biggest problem with this AU and I wanted to FIX THAT, Bond is NOT a fan of stereotyping, But tweaked because I just can't use AUs in their regular forms, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mission Fic, Nesting, Quartermasters being inducted into missions, Use of Omega stereotypes by villains, Which then becomes a rather more...heated...fic, alpha!Bond, omega!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7761298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Alphas have superhumanly keen eyesight, but he had to admit that he didn't see this coming.  </p><p>When Bond's target managed to escape him and flees back to London, the only way for Bond to get close is to go to a party frequented by the posh and wealthy - a 'plus one' type of event where your 'plus one' has to be an Omega, preferably of the fatuous variety.  Bond despairs, because there's no way he can find one of those on short notice that he also trusts to watch his back as he walks into the metaphorical lions' den.  </p><p>But then Tanner raises his hand.  </p><p>Because Tanner knows a guy, and he's closer to home than expected...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Might Know a Guy

**Author's Note:**

> So in case anyone hasn't heard, I just started graduate school - meaning my other stories are officially on hiatus until September, when I have my feet under me again and my schedule under control :P 
> 
> Until then: I have this entire fic all pre-written, and I'll try to parcel it out week by week so that no one thinks I'm abandoning the fandom :)
> 
> Before I begin, much thanks to all of those who had beta'd this work: [MinMu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MinMu/pseuds/MinMu), [Poet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunatic_poet_love/pseuds/Lunatic_poet_love), and [Springbok](http://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7), (the latter of whom you'll see specifically noted in later notes, as she did finishing touches to catch my most stubborn of errors)

Sometimes even the best 00-agents had their skills and patience tested.

Bond had chased Hadrian Ivanovich through two countries, but the whole time, he’d been so far behind the smuggler that if he hadn’t been given a dossier he wouldn’t even know the man’s face - although that helped, at least, in that Ivanovich barely knew his.  It was a truly terrible game of tag that circled all the way back to London, 007’s own turf, and he still couldn’t catch the slippery bastard.  It shouldn’t have been this difficult: Bond was an Alpha and the best at what he did, his orientation coupled with fierce training making him a truly terrifying force in the field.  All Alphas had a truly super-human sense of sight, but Bond took it up a notch, to the point where he was a veritable hunting hawk, to say nothing for his abilities as a long-range sniper.  Betas, however, had above-average hearing, and Hadrian Ivanovich seemed well-practiced at using his Beta hearing to clear out just moments before Bond would have descended on him.  

It was bloody annoying.  

“Well, at least he’s back in territory that’s more familiar to you than him,” Eve tried to mollify, when 007 reached MI6 headquarters with impatience nipping at his heels.  

Pacing M’s office while Eve, Tanner, and M herself remained tensely sitting, Bond bit back, “Yes, but we’re running out of time.  Once he connects with his buyer, those warheads he got ahold of will be ten times as hard to locate and neutralize.”

“Ah - _there_ I can help,” Tanner lifted a finger and moved forward, bringing his laptop with him so that he could swivel the screen on M’s desk for all to see.  “I’ve been corresponding with Q, and it looks like his crew at least managed to identify who Ivanovich is selling to: Ian Fitzwilliams.”

Bond recognized the man immediately from past fiascos, and swore under his breath.  He was able to offer, however, even as his mind raced, “He’s based in London.  We’ve never been able to pin anything on him because he’s got friends in high places, but I’m not as surprised as I could be that he’s taken a fancy to weapons of mass destruction.”

“Doesn’t Fitzwilliams run that big party once a year?” Eve interjected suddenly, seemingly on a tangent.  Her brows arched downwards delicately over her nose.  “The fancy one where part of the invite is to bring an Omega as your plus-one or you don’t even get in the doors?”

“He’s a classist,” 007 replied without much interest, although his own eyes narrowed as well even as he asked back, “Why?”

“Because that party is _tonight_ , and I’d bet you that if Ivanovich is meeting up to seal the deal, it’ll be at that party,” was Moneypenny’s immediate reply.  

The pieces instantly clicked, and 007 felt the blood roar in his ears with a renewed kick of adrenalin.  He looked to M, who had watched this all with a unflappable expression and Alpha eyes as razor-keen as his.  “M?” he asked, one side of his mouth curling upwards, “Permission to crash a party in the name of Queen and Country?”

Frustratingly, however, it was Eve who answered and put a damper on Bond’s plans.  “It won't be that easy, James.  We don’t have time to even get you a ticket in.”

“You clearly don’t have much faith in his pickpocketing skills,” Tanner murmured from where he’d moved to perch against the wall, leaning inconspicuously.  

Eve shot him a look even while 007 flashed a marauder’s grin.  Everyone sobered, however, as Eve got back on topic, looking at Bond with sincere worry, “Yes, Bond, but you’re forgetting - you need an Omega escort.  You can wave your ticket all you want, but without that particular status symbol, you won’t get anywhere, especially since Fitzwilliams has had MI5 and Six breathing down his neck before, and will definitely have top-notch security.”  Bond opened his mouth, but Eve raised a finger and added knowingly, “Which may not stop you, but will definitely slow even a big, bad Alpha like you down.”  She flashed a little smile to soften her words, and 007 deflated with a loud sigh.  He cut his eyes back to M, seeking intervention.

She didn’t have anything positive to add, unfortunately.  “I’m afraid Eve is correct, 007.  Time is running out, and now more than ever, we don’t have time for you to fight and shoot your way to your goal - to say nothing for the media fiasco it would cause if it were discovered that one of _my_ agents was found disturbing a party of one of London’s best brown-nosers.”  Her distaste for the man was clear, as she paused just to look serenely offended.  “But the fact remains that you need to complete your mission.  We need the location of those warheads.”

“Great,” Bond growled, exasperated and feeling increasingly like a big panther in a small cage.  Pacing would only make it worse, and it took effort not to drag his hand back through his hair and ruffle it all up.  “So all I have to do is sneak my way into a party where I can’t get anywhere without an Omega escort - and outwit a man who will hear my earpiece if I so much as get close to him!”

Somewhere in Bond’s miniature rant, Tanner’s eyes had grown suddenly distant and thoughtful.  M noticed first, not only because of her Alpha-sight but because she had had a lot of years to learn how best to be observant.  “Do you have something that might help us, Mr. Tanner?”

The Beta looked up to find everyone watching him expectantly.  “I might, actually…”

~^~

“What do you mean, Q is an Omega?!” Eve more or less exploded as they rushed down the halls, hearing imaginary timers counting down the precious seconds in their heads.  They didn’t have much time to lose, with only hours until the party.  

Tanner tried to hush her, being particularly aware of the hazards of carrying sounds thanks to his own Beta-hearing.  “Shhh!  It’s not exactly common knowledge.  And he takes suppressants, so there wouldn’t be any heats to notice.”

Bond, also having gained a new appreciation for silence after three weeks of hunting a Beta, took all of this new information in with keen interest as he padded along silently in Eve’s wake.  He was swiftly learning more about his Quartermaster in fifteen minutes than he’d learned in six months.  Up until now, Bond (and probably everyone else in MI6) had assumed that Q was a Beta, or perhaps a Null with no specific designation - something more common and less remarkable.    

Still trying to explain but clearly embarrassed at airing out someone else’s secrets, Tanner went on, “The only reason I know is because I’m the chief of staff, so when Q was having a problem with Medical approving his suppressants, I had to step in and talk to the head of the medical department.”  It must have been a particularly bad talk, because Tanner grimaced.  “Don’t _ever_ put Q and that woman into the same room unsupervised.  It would be a bloodbath.  But he’s still on suppressants, so for all intents and purposes, he’s Null.  Anyway, Q hasn’t told anyone because his designation is his business and no one else’s, so the fact that _I’ve_ told you… well…”  Tanner glanced at Bond, who met his gaze with a nonplussed expression until Tanner look away and finished a bit tightly, “This mission had better be worth it.”

“It’s two nuclear warheads worth it,” 007 deadpanned, the reminder making Tanner blanch for a second before regaining control of his expression, right as they reached Q-branch and pushed open the doors.  Q was immediately in sight, looking up from a computer across the room.  The hour was getting on into the evening, meaning the regular nine-to-fivers had gone home, leaving the more sparse evening crew on hand - and Q, whose workaholic tendencies were well-known and as perpetual as the rotations of the earth.  

“Mr. Tanner, Miss Moneypenny, I’m a little worried as to what brought you both down here to see me at the same time,” Q hazarded by way of greeting, made wary by the rather abrupt, unannounced entrance of some of MI6’s top staff.  His expression grew downright worried as he took in James striding up as well.  “007, I wasn’t even aware you were in the country, what with the radio silence and all that.”

“We need your help, Q,” Bond cut right to the chase, walking closer until there was nothing but Q’s computer between them.  The blue of the screen glinting off Q’s glasses as he met Bond’s eyes, but he never looked away as 007 proceeded to explain the entirety of the situation, right down to the mandatory Omega escort.  He stopped before voicing the solution they’d thought up, letting Q come to the conclusion naturally.

“Ah,” Q said, delicately and with a perfectly prim degree of distaste, like a persian cat daintily stepping into something wet and soggy.  He slowly closed his computer and glanced around, then said, “Considering the circumstances, and the terribly apologetic look on Mr. Tanner’s face, I think I know where this is going.  Might we… ah... step into my office to discuss it further?”  

Once assured than no sharp-eared Betas in his department would overhear anything, door closed but Q’s hand still resting on the handle, Q said slowly, “So… the man 007 chased halfway around the world is here, in London, and you have exactly three and a half hours to acquire an Omega to escort 007 to a party where he can apprehend said man?”

“There’s actually a bit more to it,” Eve decided then to break the news to everyone from where she’d perched on the edge of Q’s desk, “The only way the guards at the door will let anyone in is if they can verify that there’s really an Omega present - and by that, I mean by scent.  So no suppressants.”

Q’s back was still turned, but it was easy to hear him swear sharply under his breath, “Damn.”  Before anyone could get too excited about his sudden detour into foul language, however, the Quartermaster was turning to face them all with his professional veneer perfectly back in place again.  “That does take out most kinds of subterfuge, doesn’t it, at least on short notice?  Well.  I’m beginning to regret letting Mr. Tanner know that I’m an Omega right now-”  Bill Tanner had the good grace to look down at his shoes in a properly chastised manner.  “-But I can hardly say no at this juncture.  What do I have to do?”

Feeling a bit guilty himself for putting his own Quartermaster in this position (whom, for all that Bond didn’t know him incredibly well, he _did_ rather like), and also uneasy now that there was a life on the line other than his, 007 felt moved to say lowly, “You really don’t have to do this, Q.”

For his troubles, Bond was simply favored with a mild, faintly amused look.  “And if I don’t, you’ll what?  Miraculously summon another last-minute Omega doxie?  No, 007.  Besides, whoever you bring with you needs to be briefed on the mission should things turn sour, and there’s simply no one else with the clearance.”  Already Q was moving about his office, looking as though he were turning off various gadgets and projects for the night, so it really looked like he was onboard.  To be fair, no one had actually had time to consider the need for clearance or a mission briefing.  Eve had perhaps mentioned that Fitzwilliams’s rather old-fashioned sense of classism led him to underestimate Omegas, meaning Q would be judged as a far smaller threat than an Alpha like Bond, but they hadn’t extended that thought to its ultimate conclusion: that Q was not only apt for this role, but possibly the _only_ one for this role, because someone more ignorant of their plans would be more a liability than a help.  Bond had an atypically qualified partner for the night.  

Q grabbed his tweed coat from the chair he’d hung it over, but left it slung over his arm.  Sighing just a little to show that he wasn’t entirely pleased about this, he asked primly of his silent coworkers, “I assume we’ll be stopping by Medical before going anywhere?  I’m going to need a shot of something to negate the suppressants I’m on.  Goodness knows Dr. Harper will be more than happy to stick me with a needle.”

~^~

Eve and Tanner left to make sure everything else was in order, leaving 007 at loose ends.  So, lacking anything else to do and being _far_ too high-strung to just sit down and wait like a gentleman, he decided to follow Q.  Besides, he figured that it was far more gentlemanly to idly escort the man whom he was going to _formally_ escort later, and be available should Q have any questions.  This turned out to be a good decision, not only because Q actually interrogated Bond for details during the whole walk from Q-branch to Medical, but because Tanner’s prediction about Q and the head of Medical - Dr. Harper, it turned out - was entirely accurate and not even exaggerated.  

Bond thought he knew Q a little bit better after playing referee between the rail-thin boffin and a woman big enough to snap Q like a twig, and just barely keeping the two from going postal on one another.  

“Dr. Harper and I began our descent into mutual disagreement when I had my first Medical exam in MI6,” Q explained without prompting, once he and 007 were alone in one of the sterile-smelling patient rooms.  Dr. Harper had just left, but not before proving that beneath Q’s mild, professional veneer was a viper-tempered wildcat.  Bond was still reeling, and watched somewhat warily now as Q unbuttoned his shirt in preparation for the shot he was going to have in his shoulder upon Dr. Harper’s return.  Revealing pale skin and lean lines, Q watched his fingers work as he went on talking, “I’ll be the first to sing Dr. Harper’s praises as a practitioner of medicine, and I doubt anyone could handle you double-ohs as effectively as she can, but her opinions on Omegas are somewhat antiquated.  Not unlike Ian Fitzwilliams, she believes we should all be housewives, and preferably seen but not heard.”

It didn’t take much for 007 to deduce where this was going, and he tore his eyes away from the sight of Q’s increasingly bare torso to guess, “She didn’t agree with your decision to take suppressants?”

Q was already nodding before Bond finished the question.  With his shirt unbuttoned, he was able to easily slip it off one shoulder, and he sat down on the hospital bed that way.  He somehow managed to look professional even with only one arm in his sleeve, and his cardigan discarded on the nearby chair.  Q was never dishevelled simply because he _refused_ to ever appear that way, 007 concluded, and James fought the urge to smile at yet another moment of insight into his Quartermaster’s enigmatic character.  

“It’s people like her who remind me why I take suppressants,” Q acknowledged with the faintest dry smile quirking his mouth and making his eyes glint.  He went on in a more sardonic tone, “I’ve taken suppressants since I was a teenager, mostly because I find heats inconvenient.  Mine were also always terribly random and were only stabilized by medicinal means, so I imagine that taking this shot now will push me into a heat somewhere within the next twenty-four hours.”

007’s eyebrows shot upwards towards his hairline.  “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”  Q shook his head, but seemed surprisingly less worried than Bond was.  He leaned forward to prop an elbow on one knee, and his chin on his palm.  “That’s also one of the warnings on the bottle: halt your intake of the suppressants, and your body will immediately overcompensate with an almost instant heat to make up for lost time.  I have to go off my suppressants once every four months anyway for the good of my health, so I’ve a pretty good handle on how it works, although this is a bit off my usual schedule.  My body may not like it.”

While the mission still weighed heavily on 007’s mind, the tension that had him bouncing his leg impatiently disappeared as he took in Q’s position.  Body going still and eyes taking on another level of focus, 007 frowned and picked his next words very carefully, “What are the chances that you start going into heat in the next, say, _three_ hours?”

Fortunately, Q’s answer was immediate and comforting, “Virtually nil - we _should_ be safe for the duration of the party.  But I expect my Omega sense of smell to skyrocket much sooner.  You’ll be escorting a basset hound, Mr. Bond.”

Despite his admittedly dark and worried mood, 007 laughed.  The tension cracked a little.  “That’s actually the best news I’ve heard all day.  At least you won’t be entirely unarmed then.”

Dr. Harper chose that exact moment to walk in, and even by Beta standards, she clearly had a problem with eavesdropping, because she replied to Bond's sentence before Q could, “I would hardly call his sense of smell a dependable weapon, especially after those bloody suppressants have been messing with his system for years.”  Q was already taking on a stormy expression, and Bond girded himself for another round of preventing in-house brawling.  Dr. Harper was a big woman, not fat but tall and heavy-boned - but Q’s feistiness more than made up for his smaller size.  Dr. Harper’s take-no-prisoners demeanor was fantastic for dealing with stubborn and cantankerous 00-agents, but it was clearly rubbing their new Quartermaster the wrong way.  

This time, at least, Q didn’t rise to the bait, but instead remained sitting stiffly where he was, knuckles going white as he clutched the edge of the bed.  Oblivious (although she _had_ to be hearing the creaking of Q’s tendons), Dr. Harper began to draw up a syringe-full of amber-colored liquid.  “Mr. Bond, if you're going to be in here for reasons others than serious injury, could you make yourself useful?” the big woman stated in a crisp tone used to being obeyed, “The antiseptic wipes are on the counter.  The shot is going into your Quartermaster’s left deltoid muscle.”

Briefly, 007 considered being contrary, but Q’s defiant and angry look was swiftly becoming jaded and tired, so Bond decided not to add more stress to the situation.  Moving silently but smoothly, he got up and opened the small package of wipes with the practice of a man who’d done his own doctoring far too often to contemplate.  He caught Q’s eye as he walked up to him, glancing pointedly at Dr. Harper’s back and mouthing something discourteous about her heritage.  At that moment, he learned something else about Q that he’d suspected before: the Quartermaster could lipread.  Those lips curled up into a swift and wicked little smirk even as Q submitted himself to Bond cleaning off a patch of skin, and then to Dr. Harper jabbing him with a needle.  The Omega took it stoically, looking away from the procedure and making no noise even as his face contorted briefly in pain.  

007 thought uncharitably that Dr. Harper had done her job a little bit harder and faster than was strictly professional.  Something of Bond’s opinion must have shown on his face, because when Dr. Harper looked up from staring down her nose at her Omega patient and saw Bond’s expression, she actually jumped and went a little pale.  007 continued to lounge against the wall, silent and unblinking, reminding everyone that he was still in ‘mission-mode’ and not some off-duty guard-dog that could be ignored or taken lightly.  Dr. Harper cleared her throat, managing a brusque if businesslike tone that was an improvement on her demeaning one, “Well then, Quartermaster, what’s done is done.  You can expect a return of your natural Omega traits within the hour.  I’ll warn you, though, that this particular drug works so quickly because it essentially purges your system of the previous suppressants - it will not be pleasant.”

“I suspected as much, thank you, Doctor,” Q replied with another grimace of unhappiness, rubbing at his sore shoulder before sliding back into his sleeve again.  His long limbs moved with a natural grace where one would expect gawky awkwardness, and 007 enjoyed the smooth sliding of lean muscles under pale skin while it lasted.  Bond had always been rather unabashed about ogling pretty things, regardless of designation, gender, or professional affiliation.  “And by ‘purges’ you mean…?”

“You’re going to most likely lose whatever you had for supper very shortly, Quartermaster.”

“Ah.”  This time, both Q and Bond winced, and exchanged involuntary looks that mingled queasiness and sympathy.  What followed was an unforgiving list of exactly what would happen because of this one shot: not only would Q’s Omega scent swiftly return for anyone close enough to pick it up (which included Alphas and Betas as well, whose average sense of smell was usually more than adequate to differentiate different dynamics by scent), but his own sense of smell would heighten to frankly abnormal levels.  This would make it difficult to eat much, but after vomiting, he was encouraged to try and eat or at least hydrate himself again lest he grow faint.  Following this would be a relatively normal period for an everyday, unsuppressed Omega, followed by, as Q had warned, an almost inevitable heat.

“Your body will want what it’s been missing out on,” was as tactfully as Dr. Harper could put it.  Q pretended to be deaf to her, watching a spot on the wall just over Bond’s left shoulder as if it were a da Vinci painting.  It drove Dr. Harper insane and Bond decided that he really, really did like Q.  

After that, instead of staying put under the scrutiny of Dr. Harper and her staff, Q got dressed again and escaped - Bond still in tow - to the lower level bathrooms.  They were sure to be abandoned at this time of day, Q said, providing privacy as he endured the ‘purge’ Dr. Harper had warned of.  

“You really don’t have to stick around for this,” the Quartermaster made clear, already in one of the stalls.  Q’s getting dressed earlier had been rather counterproductive, because now he was down to his shirtsleeves again, cardigan and tie tossed over one of the sinks.  Bond leaned next to them, as if they needed guarding.  From here, he could just see Q through the open stall door, not vomiting yet but looking clammy as he knelt in front of the toilet expectantly.  

Bond crossed one ankle over the other and made himself comfortable.  “Since my mission is the sole reason you’re going through this, it’s the least I can do,” he said, meaning it, “You wouldn’t have to go through this if it weren’t for me.”

There was a gagging noise and Q’s body convulsed, and then Q leaned out of sight and over the toilet.  “Noted,” was the choked little grumble, and then the wretched noise of retching.  007 sighed, feeling a surprising amount of guilt knotting in his chest - this from someone who could look a man in the eye and kill him without losing a wink of sleep - and only waited a moment before pushing off the wall and striding towards where his Quartermaster was.  

The stall was a tight fit for two grown men, even with one built like a whippet and presently giving unpleasant offerings to a porcelain god, but Bond stepped in, straddling Q’s feet a bit and brushing Q’s mop of hair back from his forehead.  It wasn’t strictly necessary, but Bond did it anyway, explaining, “As a man who has a bad drinking habit and has puked his guts out more often than he cares to admit, I know that the only thing more awful than vomiting is doing it alone.”

Q stopped long enough to breathe, catching his breath and spitting vilely.  “And having someone else share in the misery helps?” he rasped back with clear incredulity.  

“Well, it at least lets you know that if you pass out from alcohol poisoning, there’ll be someone to call an ambulance,” 007 offered.  He left his fingers on Q’s hair, holding back some of the untamable dark mass as the drugs ran their course and cleared Q’s system of suppressants.  It was a terrible but impressively swift business.  When it was over and Q pushed himself to his feet, staggering back, Bond was there to steady him and then direct him back towards the sinks.  Bond flushed while Q began splashing water on his face and scooping up handfulls of it to rinse his mouth out with furiously.  

“Gahh!”  Q made a noise not unlike that of a cat with its tail stepped on, a sound of supreme displeasure when he finally dropped his hands in the running water.  “Well, that was bloody awful.  I hope the rest of the night goes better.”

“Until you hit your heat,” Bond reminded, almost more uneasy about that than the mission itself by this point.  

Drying off his hands and mouth with liberal amounts of paper towels, Q hummed thoughtfully before replying, “Yes, we really do have to talk about that.  Chances are very high that I’ll still be in your company when it hits me even if we survive the entire gathering first, and there are delicate matters of consent to consider - ones that I’d like to talk about while my brain is still fully functional.”

Frankly, Bond had been expecting Q to say something more along the lines of ‘If you so much as think about fucking me while I’m high on hormones, I’ll neuter you,’ so the considerate, professional tone was a bit of a surprise.  Then again, this was the Quartermaster he was talking to, who, regardless of what designation he was, could keep a level tone even while 00-agents were killing, running, and even dying while on the comms with him.  “How do you want to handle this then?” 007 decided to play it safe, crossing his arms a bit defensively but mimicking Q’s calmness.  

“Well…”  Q rubbed at his mouth thoughtfully, and for the first time when he glanced up at Bond’s blue eyes, he looked nervous.  “If by some chance it _does_ strike while we’re still attempting to obtain your mission objectives, can I trust you to keep me safe?  I don’t adhere to the common mentality of damsel-in-distress-Omegas and knight-in-shining-armor-Alphas, but I _will_ be at something of a disadvantage if my heat hormones hit me in the middle of a crowd of strange people.”

“Of course I will, Q,” Bond said, a bit shocked Q felt he had to ask.  Sure, they weren’t drinking buddies, but Bond liked to think that he and Q were at least friends - or at least someone 007 wouldn’t leave to the wolves.  Then came the trickier question, which had even 007 giving way to a twitch of unease as he asked, “And after?  Do you want me to take you straight back here, or home?”

As with everything else, Q took this in stride, making Bond wonder if Q had been hired as much for his cool-under-fire temperament as his genius.  “I hate to ask this,” Q finally stated bluntly, bespectacled hazel eyes finding blue Alpha ones, “but Dr. Harper intimated that I would be wise to spend this heat in company, and for all of her tendency to stereotype, I think she meant it for more than sexual reasons.  I’ve never taken this drug before, and while I seem to be reacting as expected, I’m a bit worried what will happen once the maelstrom of heat-hormones hit.  Probably nothing beyond the usual lustful haze will happen, but - do you mind playing babysitter?  In case I have an unplanned reaction and can’t seek medical treatment on my own?”  Q’s face actually flushed but he maintained firm eye-contact as he clarified candidly, “This would require quite a bit of sexual contact, so feel free to say no if you are uncomfortable having intercourse with a fellow employee.  Medical could certainly watch me as well - in a decidedly less intimate fashion, of course.”  Q didn’t seem at all pleased with the latter option, a brief expression of nervousness and distaste spasming across his face before he smoothed it out.  

Bristling unexpectedly at the thought of Dr. Harper (with her condescending looks and low regard for Omegas) watching over Q, Bond found that his answer was easy.  “What kind of Alpha would I be if I refused the wishes of my dashing Omega escort?” 007 smiled back charmingly, earning him a snort of dry amusement from a man used to seeing through his masks - even the well-intended ones.  Still keeping his friendly expression, Bond answered a bit more seriously, “It’s no trouble at all, Q.  And you know I’m discreet.”  Bond had also been with a few Omegas in heat before, although this would be the first time with anyone he would have to be able to look in the eyes later.  It had him thinking very carefully about how he was going to handle this, because even if Q was cool as a cucumber about the very real possibility of being fucked by one of his 00-agents, 007 didn’t want to ruin whatever relationship he’d been building with the young genius.  As recently as a week ago, his very life had depended on how well he worked with Q, and it would happen again.  “Any preference for your place or mine to weather out the storm?  And any idea how long it will last, for that matter?” Bond had to ask, for the first time recalling that heats varied.  They were as individual as the Omegas who went through them.  

“Your place, if that’s all right?” Q immediately replied to the first question while maintaining politeness.  Leaning back against the sink, he quickly explained in the smooth, lecturing tone that he’d honed in Q-branch - his didactic, ‘Quartermaster’ tone, “It’s a proven theory that the presence of an Alpha lessens the impact of an Omega’s heat, because the whole biological purpose of a heat is to attract and copulate with the best possible mate.  So.”  Q shrugged as if he hadn’t just said the world ‘copulate’ and given a biology lesson about himself.  “The more sure I am that I’ve got an Alpha on hand, the less my body will try to lure one in.”

“My place it is then,” 007 nodded graciously.  He didn’t say that he’d already known everything Q had just told him - as mentioned, he’d had Omega liaisons before, and research was something that 00-agents were actually quite good at.  Bond knew that Q’s sense of smell would be heightened, so smelling James all around him in the flat would tone down some of the biological switches in Q’s hindbrain, and make everything less… desperate.  Bond had seen it work before, although he was always reticent to take any lover back to his own territory - even temporary places like hotel rooms on missions.  For Q, though, he’d make an exception, because the Quartermaster was doing him a rather large favor right now.

Q still looked a little pale, but his smile was sincere and a bit relieved.  Before more conversation could be had, however, footsteps echoed their way, heralding the arrival of Eve with a bundle of clothing in her arms.  She glanced significantly between Bond and Q, the former looking a lot less impatient and jumpy than he had up until now.  Her almond-shaped eyes soon turned back to Q, however, and Bond imagined her struggling with the urge to demand why Q had never told her he was an Omega.  By the way Q met her eyes staunchly but calmly, he was thinking the same thing, but also pointedly making no moves to explain himself.  It was like watching a whole silent conversation played out, as Eve accepted that Q was not required to justify a simple desire for privacy over a matter that didn’t affect his work at MI6 - until now, at least.  “Okay then, boys - clothing for our undercover Quartermaster.  I knew you kept a spare change of clothes in MI6, and a few guys I know in accounting do the same, and at least one is your size.  Here.”  She handed the clothing over, then added a bit impishly, “Whatever fits the tightest will probably help you blend in best with the other Omegas there, if my sources are correct.”

“You mean I should wear whatever makes me look most like a trophy-husband,” Q grumped in a resigned tone, peeking at the slacks and shirts hung over his arm, “or arm-candy.”

“Well, considering your partner-” Eve elbowed 007, making him grunt, “-At least we know you’ll _both_ look good.”

Bond cracked a grin, feeling it slide crookedly along one side of his mouth.  “Why Eve, was that a compliment?” he teased.  

The capable woman couldn’t completely hide her smile as she looked away, but she retorted, “Shut it, you.  How about you go and change into your own spare suit?  You looking like you’ve been living in this one.”

“Admit it, though, you’d still sleep with me, even dressed like this.”

“Professionalism, Mr. Bond,” Eve reminded him primly, taking great pleasure in shutting down the innuendo-laden banter.  “Now shoo - Q needs privacy.”

Bond chuckled something about Eve not following her own advice, but nonetheless obliged, hoping he had time to catch a shower as well, because Moneypenny was right: he had been in these clothes for far too long.  It was a hazard of the job, when chasing a slippery, fast-paced target.  Besides, at a party like this, everyone was expected to look their best - and 007 would have to live up to the Omega on his arm.  

To be honest, 007 was a bit eager to see what Q would look like when he got back.  

~^~

 


	2. Let the Play Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the party, and Bond and Q have a bit of acting to do... too bad an incoming heat is messing things up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to the Swift and Glorious [Springbok](http://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7) for editing this! I occasionally dodge her like a curmudgeonly child and post things without the benefit of a beta, so she's something of a saint by this point for putting up with me XD

Having showered in one of the locker rooms in record time, hair still damp but his backup suit now on his body instead of stored away in his personal locker, Bond hurried back.  Q and Eve were, thankfully, where he’d left them, although he could hear the drifting of distant chatter - probably Q, smoothing over any ruffled feathers, or Eve, unable to keep from prodding at this secret of Q’s she’d found out.  Either way, they didn’t sound angry, and Bond’s Alpha-keen eyes picked up no signs of tension or anger in their body language or eyes.  That was all secondary, however, as 007 raised his eyebrows appreciatively and appraised his Quartermaster’s new appearance instead.  Based on glimpses of Eve’s borrowed supply of clothes, 007 had had some vague expectations, but what he was seeing now… was better.  

Bond had no illusions about how Omegas would be dressed and treated at this event.  Fitzwilliams was a classist cad who probably required Omega escorts purely for the joy of seeing them come in dressed like high-class whores.  In fact, if Fitzwilliams or one of his like-minded cronies didn’t try and steal Bond’s ‘date’ away, 007 would be impressed and maybe even a bit suspicious of their restraint.  Q was going to walk quite proudly into the event, however, because not only did he look respectable and presentable, but he looked  _ dashing _ .  Bond didn’t know if the shirt was Q’s or not, but the dark blue button-down looked almost tailored to his frame, just this side of tight in a way that hugged his lean lines and made his sharp angles look artistic instead of knobby.  The color was actually almost black, offsetting Q’s naturally pale complexion and seeming almost to melt into the jetty slacks and shiny black shoes.  With just a slight wardrobe change, Q had gone from a rather eccentrically dressed boffin to a darkly-dressed enigma in glasses.  

Eve and Q were looking at Bond, silent now and waiting for his reaction.  Instead of saying anything, keen eyes unabashedly taking in everything with the same effective, swift care that he turned towards his Walther when disassembling it, Bond suddenly stalked forward.  Q, already backed up against the sinks, made a small noise of surprise as James’s larger frame crowded him.  When Bond ran water to dampen his fingers, however, and made clear his intentions to tame Q’s wild nest of hair, the Quartermaster settled with merely a mild huff of air.  There was something of a tolerant smile lurking on his face, too, as he bent his head to 007’s ministrations, and Eve laughed unsubtly in the background.  

“Never did I think I’d see the day Q’s hair was put to order,” Eve said in a marveling tone that had Q’s eyes rolling.  

Bond stepped back, drying his hands on a paper towel and sighing, “I’d hardly call that order, but at least it looks like purposeful bed-head instead of an accidental choice.”  Before Q could open his mouth to retort, 007 cocked his head and added thoughtfully, “I like it.”

That shut the Quartermaster up, and he finally turned to regard himself in the mirror.  His hair still rested in wild waves and curls all over his head, but the paths of Bond’s wet fingers had coaxed it to lie a bit flatter, and an actual part was almost evident along Q’s scalp.  Bond watched, eyes half-lidded, as Q took this all in, not admitting that he was hungrily devouring every nuance of Q’s expression that said he liked it, too.  Arms folded, Bond could still feel the sensory memory of Q’s thick, soft hair sliding through his gently raking fingers.  Thoughts of Q’s imminent heat raced through his head again, and something must have shown on his face, because when Q’s eyes met his in the mirror, his mouth quirked up ever-so-faintly at one side.  It was a Cheshire look, illegible in a purposeful way, and Bond made a mental note that Q rather liked to be mysterious in little ways.  

“Considering how short-notice this is and what you had to work with, I think I look rather presentable,” Q declared, as if commenting on the weather instead of his hair and clothes.  He even preened a little.   Then Q spun neatly on one shiny new heel.  “One request.”  He lifted his index finger before lowering it to point accusingly at 007, at the same time that he wrinkled his nose a little.  “ _ I _ get to choose the cologne.  If I’m going to have a dog-keen nose all evening, I at least get to choose what I’m smelling from you.”

~^~

Q had good taste.  Pulling up to the building Fitzwilliams had rented for the event, 007 took in a subtle lungful of the cologne the Quartermaster had picked out.  It wasn’t one of Bond’s, meaning it was most likely something Q owned to have access to it so quickly, and the smell was remarkably subtle yet complex.  Natural yet musky with just a few trailing notes of something else, Bond wondered what an Omega’s far more refined nose would make of it.  Q’s expression revealed nothing besides a collected calm that 007 found rather impressive.  To hide that he was staring at the dark-haired man, trying to figure him out and deeply, pleasantly intrigued, Bond asked, “How are you doing, Q?”

Peering at the building with idle curiosity, Q answered without turning his head, “Surprisingly well, considering the circumstances.  I’m glad I picked the cologne, though.”

“Your sense of smell is amped up already?”

“You have no idea,” Q sighed resignedly, a mieu of discontent playing across his mouth.  At that point, they arrived by the front entrance, where there was a decided amount of fanfare as people unloaded and strode in like kings with their consorts on their arms.  “Well then, it’s time for me to play my part, isn’t it?” asked the Quartermaster with just a flicker of a smirk.

Aware that everyone was about to discount Q as a mindless, subservient Omega when in reality he was a technological powerhouse with an I.Q. higher than probably anyone else here, Bond frowned worriedly and couldn’t help but ask as he put the car in park, “Are you sure you’re going to be okay with this, Q?”

The smile Q flashed the 00-agent was a bit wan, but sincere nonetheless.  “What people assume about me is hardly my fault.  Besides.”  His smile turned slightly mischievous.  “I’m rather curious to see what I can get away with while everyone thinks that I’m a witless ball of hormones.”  The smile became an irked frown, and Q added, “To be fair, by sometime tonight I  _ will _ be a witless ball of hormones, but no one here needs to know that.”

“Indeed they do not,” 007 agreed with perhaps more force than even he had expected, before he pushed his door open and slipped out of the car, dropping his keys into the valet’s hands without a glance before sweeping around to Q’s side of the car.  The masquerade began the moment he reached in to grasp Q’s hand, drawing him out with a tug that Q followed with remarkable grace.  Bond was caught staring again, before reminding himself that natural elegance was a built-in element of an Omega coming into heat.  He hoped that Q wasn’t quite reaching the pinnacle of that yet, but the perks of being close were not something 007 was going to regret.  Flashing a charming, slightly smug smile at the sight of his lithesome partner, Bond offered his arm, and was inordinately pleased when Q wrapped a hand around it with an obliging smile.

Q was actually surprisingly good at playing his role - the butterfly-brained, demure Omega.  He quickly acquired a vacuous, lax smile that actually looked a teensy bit like the face he wore, ironically, when dealing with exceptionally stupid people that he wasn’t allowed to offend.  Bond had only seen the look twice, once when he’d been hunting down Q and found him in a meeting with MI5 and once when some government type had come down to ‘inspect’ Q-branch.  In both cases, 007 got the feeling that everyone but Q was just full of hot air and eager to express opinions on things they knew nothing about, namely Q’s work, but the Quartermaster had behaved with admirable aplomb instead of just telling them to kindly go jump off a cliff.  Q had amended that expression now, but Bond still had the amusing thought that it looked patronizing beneath the absentminded pleasantness.  It made 007 chuckle even as they approached the front doors.  

“What are you smirking about, Sterling?” Q asked, already slipping into character because their target was a keen-eared Beta, and in a crowd like this, letting slip true names was a bad idea.

‘ _ Because you’re laughing at all of these people here, and only I know you well enough to see it _ ,’ 007 thought, but instead he merely leaned close to Q’s ear to compliment, “Quinn, you look like a prince.”

“Funny, because everyone’s looking at me like I’m a call-girl.” Despite his words, Q seemed amused and sincerely flattered, and didn’t twitch at the use of his temporary name for the night.  They’d hashed out a rough backstory about how they’d met, too, one that stuck as close as possible to reality - right down to a shared interest in art at the National Gallery.  Chances were high that no one would ask, but Bond liked to be prepared, and for someone who was new to this like Q was, using half-truths was better than whole lies.  Q had made up for this lack of practice in undercover work by saving Bond the trouble of stealing an invitation - in that category, Q had the advantage of technology, and it was but the work of some fancy hacking and then some equally fancy printing to not only get Bond a physical paper invite but to put him on the online registry.  

By the time Bond and Q made it to the front door and the two men flanking it, the dashing blond and his sashaying male partner were beginning to turn heads.  Q wasn’t lying that people were giving him hungry eyes, and Bond had to admit, he was tempted to do the same, and he already had the dark-haired young man on his arm.  “Richard Sterling,” Bond introduced himself, then patted Q’s hand without looking at him, instead flashing a confident smile as he added smoothly, “and company.”

While one man took Bond’s invitation and checked it through the tablet in his hands, the other one rather blatantly looked Q over and sniffed the air.  The amusing part was, he didn’t seem to be doing it because he suspected Q of being anything but Omega - in fact, James suspected the case to be quite the opposite.  Off his suppressors, Q’s body was bouncing back to its original Omega settings, and in fact probably going a little overboard on its way to a full-blown heat.  007 could smell it, too: a musky, honeyed smell that made his nose twitch and his thoughts stray.  

They were soon let through, and entered a richly carpeted, high-ceilinged room, where many couples were already mingling, drinking, and otherwise making like peacocks and looking opulent.  “Betas,” Q murmured, or scoffed, rather.  007 immediately turned his head.  When Q met his bemused look, the boffin explained with a derisive little sigh, “If the purpose of the men at the door was to determine whether or not you had the right breed of escort, then it’s silly to hire Betas - which both of those men were - but then again, Fitzwilliams would hardly want to put an Omega on his payroll.”

Since Q sounded almost  _ disappointed _ in all of this, 007 chuckled, patting Q’s hand again for the sake of appearances - and to show he agreed.  “Now, Quinn, should you really be so verbally disparaging towards men with heightened hearing?” he asked.  Bond and Q were turning heads more slowly in here, birds amidst their own flock, and 007 scanned the room and got his bearings with the help of his own secret weapon: incredibly keen Alpha eyes.  

Q expelled a louder sigh, sounding so theatrically put-upon that Bond had to fight the urge to laugh again, even as Q leaned against him and said, “Oh, all right, darling, if you say so.”

Bond couldn’t help the smile crookedly pulling at his mouth, and upped his own performance along with Q’s in case any Beta ears were, indeed, listening, “I  _ do _ say so.  Now, do you want something to drink?”

What followed would perhaps have been a pleasant evening if the mission weren’t hanging over his head, and if there weren’t constant reminders that Q was basically an ornament to everyone here.  He wasn’t alone, of course - precisely half of the attendees were in exactly the same position as him.  The Omegas in the crowd moved around either like prizes and marks of status on their partners’ arms or else moved around in the company of other Omegas like a flock of parrots - sent to entertain themselves while the  _ important _ folk discussed  _ serious _ things.  Of course, that flock of Omegas was the victim of every lascivious eye in the room, and 007 wondered how many of those Omegas would be going home with the same people they came with, or if some were about to be traded about like chips in a poker game.  The thought made him pull his arm tighter to his side, drawing Q in close as they moved.  A few times, banter was unavoidable, in which case 007 exercised his ability to lie with a straight face, talking about the gross amount of money he made in shipping and pretending Q didn’t exist.  He was nervous about how Q would handle this, but the Quartermaster was doing rather well: he had mastered a truly vacuous smile on the occasions when anyone bothered to address him at all, and when he was being ignored, pulled out his phone and absorbed himself in it.  

“Distractible little thing, isn’t he?” a female Alpha noted, looking at Q with eyes that quite blatantly undressed him, “Pretty, though.”

Unsure what Q was up to but easily flexible enough to play along, 007 replied easily, “You know how it is with today’s technology - utterly addictive.  He pays attention when it counts, though.”  007 let his leer speak wonders, but beneath it, growled disgustedly as the woman’s eyes immediately lit up with an avaricious glint.  Knowing that he couldn’t afford to stand out, 007 jostled his companion lightly, calling to him in a playful tone, “Come on now, Quinn, be polite to the woman.”

Obediently as a newly trained puppy, Q lifted his head and flashed an embarrassed little smile.  “My sincerest apologies, ma’am,” he said in his usual, cultured tones, but much more quietly and unassumingly than he usually spoke - matching in quite well with every other Omega here.  He passed off his phone to Bond before wrapping both of his hands around 007’s elbow, “I just wasn’t following the conversation and didn’t want to make a fool of myself, you know?”

‘ _ You could talk circles around this woman _ ,’ 007 retorted in his head, mouth twitching upwards again.  He chanced a glance down at the phone now in his hand, and was surprised to see a typed out message on the screen: ~ _ There are significantly more Alphas here than Betas. Follow me and I’ll lead you to the latter until we find your man _ ~  Bond just about hugged Q right then and there, not only because what Q was offering would simplify 007’s mission significantly, but because Q was using his smarts to get around the threat of eavesdropping Beta ears.  Anyone listening would simply hear a smug, proud Alpha and his thoughtless (if slightly technology addicted) Omega date.  

The Alpha woman had engaged Q in the most mind-melting conversation 007 had ever heard, so condescending that even Q’s unflappable facade was starting to crack around the edges and morph into something vaguely murderous.  Bond saved everyone from that by pretending to see someone across the room, bidding the woman a good evening and tugging Q away from her.  

Since Bond still had Q’s phone, he tried to wrangle it so that he could type back, but Q moved first: as soon as they stopped, the Quartermaster wriggled a bit, breaking away from Bond’s elbow to instead snuggle up under that same arm.  Perplexed but too well trained to show it, 007 reacted as benignly as he could, letting his arm curl in as Q pulled it in like a needy lover seeking attention.  Q was hardly the only Omega doing it, but Bond had to wonder why in the world Q was mimicking the other sadly domesticated Omegas in the room.  Back to Bond’s chest and acting entirely comfortable, Q pulled up Bond’s hand, and it looked to all the world like he was teasingly playing with it while ‘Richard Sterling’ humored his antics.

But it was only seconds before Bond realized that Q was sketching letters against his open palm, away from any prying Alpha-keen eyes but 007’s.  ‘W E L L ?’ Q spell out, then slowly traced a ‘Y’ and then an ‘N’ before another question mark.  

Impressed all over again with Q’s resourcefulness, 007 hammed up their playacting by pressing his mouth against the back for Q’s head.  This buried his nose in Q’s hair, and too late Bond remembered that Q smelled decidedly irresistible, and something in his brain nearly short-circuited as he breathed in.  Q didn’t just smell like an unbonded Omega with no prior engagements - he smelled exactly like he was on the edge of a heat.  By some miracle, Bond didn’t make any embarrassing noises, and regained his wits quickly to nod subtly in answer to Q’s question.  The Quartermaster, maddeningly enough, hadn’t even jumped as Bond hid his reply in a show of public affection.  

Someone else had walked by and noticed, an older man with a disproportionately young female Omega as a partner.  The girl’s dress was see-through in the most evocative of places, testing the lines of appropriateness.  The older man grinned and spoke to 007 quite jovially, “May I just say, the two of you are adorable.  I don’t have any other word for it.” 

For the most part, Q had been ignored like a piece of furniture all evening, and had handled it all with amazing patience and aplomb for a man who headed a department in MI6.  Now, though, he exercised his right to be surprising (and his right to own and use a set of vocal cords) but turning in Bond’s arm to reply before Bond could, “Yes, I’m  _ so _ lucky.  Master Sterling takes  _ such _ good care of me.”

Bond gave Q a little pinch to warn him to turn down the patronizing effusiveness, and quickly tucked his Quartermaster under his arm - on the opposite side from the old man, who looked a bit startled and unsure whether to smile or not.  Bond wasn’t entirely surprised by the reaction.  After all, how was one to react to a seemingly docile Omega suddenly gushing with praises but smiling like he wanted to deflesh you with his teeth?  “Quinn has been a wonderful addition to my life,” Bond said back a bit woodenly, although his next sentence was entirely truthful, “My life is certainly less boring with him around.”

“Oh, I imagine,” the old man - another Alpha, Bond could determine now that they were close enough for his own, mediocre sense of smell to be of use - regained his previous good mood to chuckle, “My little cupcake sure keeps me  _ lively _ .”  Bond’s smile grew progressively more strained as the older Alpha pinched his Omega’s behind rather obviously on the last word, and then laughed more loudly as she squirmed and giggled like a toy with the correct buttons being pushed.  Q went a bit stiff on Bond’s far side, but then relaxed again with a distinctly resigned, unhappy sigh.  

Bond let his hand find Q’s, tucking them both against Q’s stomach and curling his index finger to trace carefully, ‘S O R R Y.’  Q just shook his head before taking his phone back from Bond and going back to being ostensibly absorbed by it, all while staying under the loop of James’s arm.  

Eventually they managed to disentangle themselves from the lecherous old Alpha and his fawning companion, but 007 was getting increasingly eager to finish all of this either before his Quartermaster was offended beyond repair, or before James decided to rewrite the entire social system with his fists.  He’d always been aware of how Omegas were stereotyped as sex-objects and home-makers, but London was usually progressive enough that that mindset was relegated to the shadows.  The rich could behave as they pleased, unfortunately, and Fitzwilliams was proving that.  “You know, this party is turning out to be more tiresome than I had expected,” James muttered, not caring if anyone overheard.

Q had the emotional resilience to snort out a laugh at Bond’s obvious temper.  “Oh, it could always be worse,” he said airily.

“Let’s just go shake hands with the people we came here to see,” Bond replied, words benign but his meaning conveyed in the coldness of his blue eyes, “so that we can go home.”

“Mm, yes, home would be preferable to here, wouldn’t it?” Q blandly pretended to consider, before slipping out from under Bond’s arm again to resume his position at his elbow.  From there, he began subtly leading them through the party, leaving the main room - where Bond had already scouted out every face and found no Hadrian Ivanovich - and heading to small side-rooms where quieter and more intimate conversations were being held.  All the while, Q kept up his mild-mannered facade, the only hints of his usefulness being in the way he constantly turned his head this way and that, eyes half-lidded but nostrils flaring now and again with each inhale.  Even though 007 was beginning to buzz with energy and a desire to act and finish this, he allowed himself to passively turn with every nudge of Q’s body or follow every shift of his weight.  Q led without being obvious about it, although Bond was incapable of ignoring just how useful having an Omega companion was proving - he almost wished that he’d known what Q was before.  While Alphas like Bond and Betas like Ivanovich had a sense of smell strong enough to determine the designations of people in close quarters, Q’s own nose was powerful and discerning enough to pick up scents throughout the whole building and be able to differentiate specific people instead of simply separate dynamics.  Q unfortunately had never met Bond’s target to get a lock on his scent, and 007 found himself cursing that loss - if Q were to have smelled Ivanovich before, he could probably just track his scent right to him.  

The only hitch, however, was that pending heat.  

While traveling in the enclosed space of the car, 007 had become used to Q’s distinctive scent somewhat, and now that they were in large, well aerated rooms, it wasn’t as strong… at least initially.  That specific spice-and-musk scent of an oncoming heat had only increased since Bond had nuzzled his nose against Q’s hair, and was now becoming something comparable to blood in the water.  It trailed behind Q like an enticing thread for sharks.  “Quinn?” Bond asked, unable to say anything more for fear of being overheard.  He hoped the growing tension and caution in his tone transmitted more than words could.

It apparently did, because the glimpse he caught of Q’s profile as his head turned showed a worried frown instead of the lackadaisical mask Q had been wearing all evening.  “I’m still happy to be here, of course,” Q said, words chosen carefully to sound benign even as 007 saw very real anxiety brighten Q’s hazel eyes, “But if we could finish up sooner rather than later, Mr. Sterling, I’d prefer it.  I have a feeling I’m about to be… ill.”

“And I do believe people are staring,” Bond added on an exhale, sharply scanning the room and picking out those who were already growing inordinately interested.  Many Alphas and Betas were beginning to ignore their own partners in favor of staring at Q like a meal about to be served.  “Stick close to me,” 007 whispered, once again switching their positions so that Q was at his side, James’s right arm around him.  This time it was a clearly protective gesture, and 007 made no bones about showing off the possessive side of his nature.  Posturing was something he did rather well, and with his glacial gaze sliding about the room like a cold straight-razor, quite a few people looked away.  Bond’s heart gave a stuttering thump in his chest as he felt Q sigh and relax a little, assured that Bond’s promise to keep up his end of the bargain - protection if needed - was genuine.  A few people still leered with obvious interest, but it was fairly clear now that the blond-haired, frosty-eyed Alpha wasn’t about to give away his partner, no matter the scent-signals Q was starting to give off.  

Suddenly Q was holding up his phone again for Bond to see: ~ _ I’ve a faster way to find Ivanovich _ ~

Excitement dashed aside 007’s growing unease, and he immediately commanded, “Tell me.”

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the heat is coming, but Q's got a plan! It's like watching someone race to cross the train-track before the train hits...


	3. Playing with Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say about playing with fire: even though you know you're gonna get burned, it's still hot as hell.
> 
> Q's got a plan, and it's swiftly going to become both of these things at the rate they're going...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still utterly swamped by graduate school, but luckily, [Springbok](http://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7) is buzzing right through the editing of this story - so even if I don't magically reappear in September, this fic will keep going until I find some magical freetime...

Q took only seconds to type, but he was grimacing a bit as he lifted the phone again - and the reason why was pretty clear.  This plan was _not_ something that went over well with Bond.  The 00-agent immediately cut off a curse halfway out of his mouth and stole Q’s phone, managing to keep Q in the loop of his arm even as he typed a reply back with fingers less skilled than Q’s.  ~ _Your waltzing off to just ASK the other Omegas is more likely to cause an orgy than get results. Do you realize this?_ ~

Instead of rising up to match Bond’s temper, the Quartermaster sighed, rolled his eyes, and patiently wrestled his phone back.  ~ _Asking is faster than me seeking out every Beta until you recognize the one you want. Also, no one is watching my behavior, so my asking is hardly suspicious._ ~

“Yes, but everyone is just plain watching you,” 007 growled back unhappily under his breath.  

~ _And you’ve given them all looks that promise a slow death. And I’ve still got time before things get really bad_ ~ Q typed back without a hitch, and 007 could practically hear the Quartermaster’s level, patient tones right through the letters on the screen.  It was infuriating but familiar: Q had practice at being unflappable, and with trying to explain things logically to 00-agents who were in the thick of trouble.   _~Now is our best opportunity.~_  As soon as Bond had read, Q pointedly gave Bond a stubborn, I-do-what-I-want-look, and then said aloud in his terribly unnatural foppish voice, “Darling, how about you go and talk to some of your friends while I talk to mine?  This is all getting just too _boring_ for me.”

Bond feared that his smile looked more like a baring of teeth, because he knew when he was being maneuvered into a corner.  Q just stared back fearlessly and raised one eyebrow, as if challenging Bond to deny him, especially since a few people's heads turned to look at them - probably Betas, eavesdropping shamelessly on what was presently the most intriguing couple in the crowd.  It was lunacy to bring an Omega anywhere when they were heading into their heat, and 007 was beginning to realize why.  

“Whatever you want, darling,” was what James eventually crooned back, softening out his voice because he _could_ but not because he particularly wanted to.  It came out of his mouth with the softness of warm velvet and the unsettling smoothness of unsheathed steel.  Q knew the tone, but fortunately, the same experiences that led him to recognize the deadliness allowed him to be quite inured to it.  

Flashing another vacant smile and slipping out from under Bond’s arm with a blithe, “Ta!” the Quartermaster actually gave a little finger-wave before strolling across to the nearest grouping of Omegas.  Bond couldn’t help but stare at Q’s arse the whole way, and noted with some embarrassment that Q’s stride was growing more fluid and elegant by the minute, making 007 think of felines and dancers.  

Someone walked up to Bond’s side and whistled.  A Beta.  “You’re playing with fire with that one,” said a mustachioed man, shaking his head but likewise staring after Q in a way that made Bond think rather bloody thoughts.  “Are you planning on having a full bed tonight, because with that one as bait, you could lure in just about any Alpha or Beta in the room and have them dancing to your tune - just to get a piece of that arse.” By the man’s tone, he was one of those people, hook, line, and sinker.

Swallowing the growl bubbling at the back of his throat and the hand itching to pull a trigger of some kind, 007 pulled his metaphorical mask on a bit tighter, and stuffed his hands into his pockets.  He affected a languid stance, eyes half-lidded lazily as he watched after Q with every ounce of his Alpha-sight.  “I like dangerous things,” he said, playing with the truth and more than a little relieved that Q was out of hearing range, “We’re monogamous, but there’s nothing quite so exhilarating to him than knowing he’s catnip in a den of lions, knowing that he’ll get _no one_ but me.”  Bond’s voice dropped into that iron-cold, blade-edged range again at the end, his words still technically polite but lethal-sounding enough that the man to Bond’s left jumped and jerked his head to look at him sharply.  And gulp.  Bond flashed him a playful smile that never warmed his eyes up past freezing.  “He is pretty, though, isn’t he?”

The Beta cleared his throat and swallowed again.  “I think my Omega is calling me,” he said thinly, and without waiting for a reply, turned and left.  Bond’s smile became a bit more real and perhaps a bit meaner, before he turned his attention back to Q again, intent on fulfilling his role as bodyguard while Q fulfilled his role of assisting Bond’s mission in any way possible.  

The thing about an Omega in heat, 007 knew, was that it created an _excuse_ for hotblooded Alphas and Betas to do reprehensible sexual things - but it didn’t force them to.  Just as society was moving forward to create equality between the different dynamics, so had science made leaps in understanding all of them.  Perhaps in the primeval past, the pheromones of an Omega had been a biological imperative to both sides, but in the modern world, there was no need to pin an Omega down and fuck him or her just because of a heat.  Pheromones and hormones did not excuse rape. Unfortunately, science and old-fashioned opinions were not of one mind, so Q had a right to be worried about himself.  There was every chance that multiple people in the room were even now mentally staking claims, seeing Q as fair game right up until another warm body was mounted up behind him.  Bond quietly reevaluated his appreciation of Q’s bravery, walking now amidst strangers, not only vulnerable thanks to the lost suppressants but because he wasn’t even supposed to be here.  This was an active mission - Q normally would have been back in MI6 behind his computers and tech, not on the ground with 007.  

Picking up a drink from a passing waiter’s tray, 007 sipped at it and pretended to be idly wandering the room without ever truly letting his attention wander from Q.  His Quartermaster was not getting hurt on his watch.  

It seemed like eons, but it was probably only a few minutes before Q walked back up to him, still smelling as tempting as wine to an alcoholic and moving with a natural glide that made Bond shiver.  He looked down at his phone the whole way, tap-tap-tapping at the screen like a self-absorbed teenager - however, Bond’s eyes were keen enough to see the way Q kept looking up furtively beneath his bangs, and at one point detoured skittishly to one side.  A glance told Bond a second later that another man was heading Q’s way like a bull-shark through a school of fishes, so 007 changed his course, too, making it clear that he was a great white shark in this equation.  

“Sterling,” Q breathed when they crossed paths, Bond’s broad back to the threat like a wall, which served to ward the man off even before Q sidled up closer with a clearly relieved look.  007 had to breathe through his mouth for a moment to keep his brain from derailing.  “May I say ‘thank you’ for your impeccable timing?”

Even breathing through his mouth wasn’t helping - 007 could practically taste the inviting pheromones Q was giving off.  Aware that he sounded a bit desperate but not in the least ashamed, 007 rasped, “We _need_ to get you home, Quinn.”

“I won’t argue with that assessment,” Q replied with an uneasy little roll of his shoulders, like a snake itching to shed its skin.  Or a Omega getting hopped up on hormones and wanting to shed his clothing as his temperature skyrocketed.  “Here.  Let me hide in your shadow for a little bit while you read this.”  Q handed over his phone and then shifted to lean against Bond’s other side, folding his arms around himself and starting to look fidgety.  The steps leading up to a regular heat were often uncomfortable, and Q’s heat right now was a largely artificial one, so 007 didn’t want to think about how unpleasant the determined boffin was feeling right now.  Still, Q continued talking as Bond scanned the text on the phone, “You know, I was pleasantly surprised to find that group rather nice company.  Not all of them were conversationalists, of course, but only a very small portion of them were sincerely stupid, and even those I blame on their home environment.  So…?”  At the hanging sentence and questioning tone, Bond looked over and Q nodded at the text message.  In the same beat, the Quartermaster mouthed, ‘ _Helpful_?’

Q looked so uncertain for a moment, and the spots of color on his cheeks were precursors to the low-grade fever most Omegas burned through, but the Quartermaster immediately brightened up when 007 grinned.  “Have I mentioned that I adore you?” 007 asked charmingly, even as he reeled Q in close by the nape of his neck so that he could press his lips to the slender young man’s forehead.  He told himself that it was for the sake of their cover, but was quite aware that he was lying to himself, even before he inhaled and just about got drunk on the scent that filled his lungs.  

When they pulled apart again, Q had a slightly wary smirk playing around his mouth, and his arched eyebrow said he knew _exactly_ what that was all about.  Apparently he wasn’t offended, however, because he teased back dryly but not angrily, “You’ve hardly had enough to drink to warrant flattery of that level.”

“Maybe I think you deserve it,” 007 said back, tone playful.  At the same time he slipped the phone into Q’s hand again and coaxed Q’s other hand around his elbow.  Apparently, if Q’s unwitting sources were correct, Ivanovich was one on the balcony floor above them - stairways on opposite ends of the main ballroom lead up to a walkway that circled the room, giving a panoramic opportunity to either look down on those below or disappear behind the privacy of closed doors.  The other Omegas had indicated that Ivanovich had headed up to one of the rooms on the north side…

007 headed for the south-most stairs.  

Bond’s keen eyes could tell by the way Q’s mouth opened and then snapped shut again that he was not only surprised but had almost used Bond’s real name.  After a beat of recovering, Q said more smoothly even as he gave Bond’s arm a little tug, “Sterling, are you sure you don’t want to go _that_ way?”

Relaxed as a cat on a front porch step, 007 nodded, “Quite.  Now, come along, Quinn, let’s go and take in the view.”  When Q still insisted on giving him a confused, disapproving look, 007 sighed and stopped at the foot of the stairs furthest from their target.   _‘Beta_ ,’ was the only word he mouthed, while also reaching out to tap a finger gently against the shell of Q’s ear.  This time when 007 instigated physical contact, he was in a position to view Q’s expression, and therefore learned that Q was starting to get distractible: even at just that small touch to his skin, Q’s eyelids lowered and he leaned almost unconsciously in the direction of 007’s hand.  

Q was still able to recover, though, and blinked a heartbeat later as if nothing had happened.  ‘ _He’ll hear you_ ,’ he mouthed back, understanding now lighting his intelligent eyes.

Bond just nodded and continued to lead them up the south stairs.  Ivanovich had gotten irksomely good at hearing James coming, and he at least wanted a chance to scout out the situation without his very footsteps and breathing patterns announcing him.  Honestly, Bond wasn’t sure how he could get close to his target with any kind of subtlety.  

They sauntered together up the stairs, 007 easily talking of idle, random things and Q being more than quick-minded enough to respond even if he didn’t have the training.  Once on the balcony, however, 007’s eyes were immediately looking across the intervening space, and it took only seconds for him to make some conclusions that had fierce triumph and bitter frustration warring with equal strength in his gut.  “Your new friends were right,” 007 murmured, noting the dearth of people on this floor and talking just a tad more freely, “Closed door, at your one o’clock.”  Irritation made 007’s shoulders tighten, and he added past a tensed jaw, “I recognize the two Nulls flanking it.”

Making a mild humming noise of acknowledgment, Q followed Bond’s eyes without any undue excitement, although the Quartermaster’s slim fingers gripped Bond’s arm a bit tighter.  “There aren’t any Betas close enough to overhear us now,” Q informed 007 unexpectedly, his clipped tones sounding nothing like the Omega dandy he’d been playing and one-hundred percent like the Quartermaster of MI6, “Everyone I can scent up here is an Alpha, Omega, or a Null, at least for now.”

“What about the guarded room across the way?” 007 demanded.

Q hesitated, lips pursing.  “There are definitely older scents of a Beta or two, but my sense of smell isn’t exactly as geographically accurate as your eyes,” he reminded, sounding slightly chiding but also as if he were disgruntled by his own limits, too.  “I’m afraid I can’t confirm, but I wouldn’t deny either.”  Q glanced up over his glasses, meeting Bond’s eyes squarely.  “I trust your instincts, though.”

Unexpectedly warmed by Q’s faith in him, 007 was the one who broke eye contact first, looking back towards the room with its two guards - whom 007 knew on sight, but who thankfully didn’t know him.  Nonetheless, 007 kept his body turned broadside to them, walking himself and Q into the shadow of a supporting pillar.  “Fat lot of good my instincts do if I can’t get to the man inside,” 007 growled, letting his exasperation show now that he knew he didn’t have to worry so much about Betas near enough to eavesdrop, “Even discounting the guards, Ivanovich’s bloody _ears_ know me.  Even for a Beta, he’s good, and this is what’s made him so hard to catch this entire time.”

“What if…?”  Q couldn’t see the room in question because both James and the pillar were in the way, but his eyes unfocused on the middle distance as if he’d developed X-ray vision all of a sudden.  His expression turned pensive and his tone turned thoughtful.  “What if you could get a clear line of sight?”

“I bloody can’t, Q.  Even with your toys, I can’t get through a solid door without getting close.  And you know that an Alpha like me is deadliest at a distance.”  What Bond meant was that a _sniper_ like him was deadliest at a distance, or at least most effective.  The closest James had come to taking out Ivanovich had been from the rooftops of adjacent buildings - in those cases, luck had foiled him more than any skills on the Beta’s part.  Besides, they needed Ivanovich alive to tell them where he’d stored the bombs he was now trying to sell.  

Instead of being put out by this, Q merely cocked his head, the gears in his brain working top speed even though he had to be slowly, slowly getting more and more distracted by his own condition.  Q had tipped his head to the right first, and spoke next as he rocked it in the other direction in a flop of dark, barely-tamed curls, “But what if I got him to open the door?”

Like an ice-cube being applied to the skin of his spine, 007 realized what Q was saying.  “No.”

Finally Q drew his eyes back from staring into space and fixed them on 007, putting on a patently unimpressed expression coupled with a stubborn little frown.  “Look me in the eyes and tell me that anyone with working olfactory receptors would be able to resist opening that door once they smelled me on the other side.”

Feeling belligerance rising up in him even as another part of him entirely wanted nothing more than to fold (because Bond had working olfactory receptors, too), 007 grit his teeth, did indeed look Q in the eyes, and said flatly, “They _would_ resist the urge to open the doors.”

Q’s mouth twitched, and he almost laughed at 007’s blatant recalcitrance.  Then Q poked Bond in the chest, enunciating quite clearly, “Nice try.  I’d totally believe that you were telling the truth if logic weren’t proving you wrong.  You’re an incredible liar, but you can’t cheat facts.  I’m pretty sure that if you didn’t know me, even _you_ would be acting absolutely ridiculous right now and trying to get all over me - I smell like a walking orgy!”  Q actually threw his arms up in the air, finally exasperated enough to just say it like it was.  Bond winced at the truth of that, even as he resisted the urge to reach out and touch.  It was entirely possible to behave himself, but very, very tempting not to with his hindbrain acting up around Q.  The Quartermaster was watching his expression steadily, and no doubt saw the moment 007 gave up on that particular argument.  

That didn’t mean he gave up altogether.  “You were cleared for this mission to get me in, not put yourself directly in harm’s way,” 007 said sternly.  He crossed his arms for affect, but then realized he was really doing it because it kept his arms penned in so he wasn’t tempted to card his fingers through Q’s dark hair - just to see if Q was too far gone to keep his eyes from fluttering.  That realization made Bond realize that perhaps _he_ was too far gone, and this mission was swiftly heading into dangerous, uncharted territory.

Q was still capable of being ridiculously logical, somehow.  It was honestly both infuriating and incredible.  “I won’t be putting myself in harm’s way.  I’m just going to be the ditzy, wandering Omega who comes strolling up to their door.”  Q indicated himself, adding ruefully, “Considering the state I’m in, hardly anyone is going to question why I’m doing things.”  Q glowered, then muttered, “In another hour or so, _I_ won’t even be questioning why I do things.”

“That’s hardly enough to justify-” Bond tried, aware that he was losing this argument because Q was not only a stubborn little bastard, but a more than decent debater with practice against 00-agents.  He also had an unfair advantage because he smelled delicious and it was making James’s head swim.  

“I’m going.”  Q drew himself up like a bespectacled heron and took a pointed step back from 007.  When the agent didn’t try and catch him, the Quartermaster continued, “And I fully expect that when that door opens for me, you will be ready to do what is necessary… and also watching my back.”  The Quartermaster’s stubborn expression melted away slightly, giving Bond just one vulnerable moment - a look at ‘Q’ instead of the Quartermaster.  That, more than anything, softened 007 and made him breathe out slowly.  

“My eyes will be on you the whole way, Q, and I won’t be any further away than here,” 007 promised solemnly.  

“Good.”  The Quartermaster was back, self-assured and professional.  “Now, let’s finish this up before I become truly embarrassing…”

Without further ado, Q turned on his heel and began walking away, after a few brisk steps remembering that he had a role to play that did _not_ include rushing.  The emptiness of the balcony floor helped significantly, because James didn’t want to think how quickly Q would have been waylaid if he’d been doing this in the crowded ballroom - it was a minor miracle that he’d managed to kip off to talk to the other Omegas.  Against the ivory tones of the walls and the bright golden lighting, Q in his dark attire stood out marvelously, and 007 tracked Q like a hawk from his shadowed pillar.  When Q was halfway to his destination, 007 glanced both ways to be sure there was no one in a position to see him, and then slipped a hand into his jacket, removing one of Q’s infamous toys.  For a non-Alpha, Q was remarkably good at tailoring things to them, and Bond was aware that Q designed tech for all dynamics with similar consideration and care: earpieces for Betas were quieter, tech for the Nulls was designed to make up for what their senses lacked… and Bond, as an Alpha, got long-range tools that just about made his mouth water with desire.  What he pulled out of his jacket was small and compact, but he knew that it would make the distance from here to that door with no trouble.

Now he just needed that door to open, and this would all be over.  “Come on, Q,” Bond whispered to himself, too quietly for even a nearby Beta to have heard, “You mad hatter, I’m counting on your plan to be more genius than crazy.”  He was also counting even more on Q coming back to him in one piece, because the terrible thought of telling M that he’d let something happen to her Quartermaster came in second only to his own feelings of impending guilt.  

After that, it was like the world began to simplify and slow.  Alphas were sight-based, obviously, but the good ones also knew the benefits of blocking out everything else: one by one, 007 took each sound, each smell, each distraction and catalogued it before discarding every one.  With each step Q took, 007 was sealing away the world, creating a bubble around himself formed out of pure concentration.  In hectic situations, this could be both a life-saver and a death-warrant, but right now 007 knew that he had a tiny window of opportunity to act, and if he had to ignore other potential threats to his person to capitalize on that window, then he’d do it.  By the time the two Null guards noticed Q (although they lacked any particular heightened sense themselves, they were more than capable of smelling the pheromones of an Omega as close to a heat as Q), Bond was listening to only his heartbeat and his own breathing, and smelling nothing but the cologne Q had picked out for him and the lingering musk of Q himself like a promise caressing his senses.  Bond shut out those, too, one by one as the guards' heads turned, as Q placed himself in front of the door with benign steps…

And as the door was pulled open from the inside three heartbeats later.

Even with all of the intervening space between them, 007’s eyes saw everything.  He was like a falcon, hovering on the highest thermals but still spotting a field-mouse on the distant earth below, and he felt triumph in a distant way as he recognized the face looking out of the room: Hadrian Ivanovich, the most elusive Beta James had ever met.  

“Not elusive enough,” 007 rumbled under his breath, and then raised his gun and with a syncing of sight and motion, aimed and fired with inhuman speed.  Instead of the expected bang of a bullet exiting the muzzle, or even the more hushed retort of a silenced weapon, there was something more like an airy whistle, and 007 knew instantly that the dart-gun Q had designed had done its work.  

After discussing the need for an Omega to get in, everyone in the small group at MI6 had also hashed over the need for subtlety - they couldn’t afford a major fiasco so close to home.  “Birds don’t shit in their own nest,” Eve had elucidated succinctly, and everyone else had grudgingly agreed.  So Bond’s Walther was turned in for a dart gun, which he’d at first viewed with distaste, his experience proving dart-guns to be less dependable over the great ranges he preferred.  

But then Q had smiled his little smile and had taken the weapon back, laid it out on his desk, and had began to outline every little renovation he’d done to it.  By the end, 007 felt like Christmas had come early, and now, as his falcon-keen eyes watched the clear dart bury itself into Hadrian’s neck, he felt boyishly excited all over again.  

Bond had to move fast now.  The dart was inconspicuous, all of it made of clear plastic right down to the tiny fletchings, but Hadrian would have noticed the sting and therefore it wouldn’t be long before his guards noticed a problem, too.  Besides that, there was another complication: past Ivanovich’s shoulder, deeper in the room, Bond had spotted Fitzwilliams, too.  The deal was already underway, complicating an already tricky mission with another set of variables.  Trading out some of his caution for speed, 007 hid his gun against his thigh and began stalking swiftly around the perimeter, ready to finish this.  

Ivanovich had stumbled back into the room without closing the door, probably already beginning to feel groggy from the soporific in his bloodstream.  The guards looked startled but not yet sincerely alarmed, caught off-balance by the unexpected action of their employer.  They were looking away from Bond and into the room - and also away from Q.  Before anything else could happen, however, the dark-haired boffin suddenly slipped past them and _right into the room_.  

Bond broke into a run after the last turn around the square balcony, throwing caution to the wind and cursing Q’s name to hell and back within his head.  

The two guards followed Q into the room, forgetting their posts.  With no longer anything in his way, 007 swiftly closed the last of the distance and barged in himself - if Q was going to clear the doorway for him, then Bond was going to be the wolf at that door.  He surged in and was the one to finally shut the door, which had the added bonus of keeping things contained.  There were now six people in the room: The two guards right in front of 007, turning to him with startled looks, Ivanovich slowly toppling off the chair he’d stumbled to, the dart on the floor but the drug in his system, and Q and Fitzwilliams across the room.  Before James could overpower the guards or move through them, Q tackled Fitzwilliams, sending something skidding across the floor that Bond realized must be Fitzwilliams’s phone, two numbers already typed in to no doubt call for assistance.  The guards were recovering their wits enough to do their job, but 007 had always considered anything less than four attackers a party rather than a real fight, so he ignored them for the one heartbeat it took to raise his weapon again, aim past Q, and imbed a dart in Fitzwilliams’s hand.  The man yelped and cursed and tried to throw Q off him while 007 dropped his ranged weapon and instead began the swift and brutal process of taking out two people with his bare hands.  It didn’t take long, and by the time he rammed the last guard’s head into the back wall, Fitzwilliams had lost his fight both with Q and with sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whew* So the boys made it out of the frying pan! Time to put them in the fryer yet? ;) I mean, Q's definitely getting hotter by the second ;)
> 
> Okay, I'll stop the 'heat' jokes, lol


	4. Lightning on Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q together have caught themselves not one but two villains. 
> 
> Of course, things are doomed to only get harder from there... and there's definitely a double entendre to 'harder', because Q's hormones are _done_ playing nice and waiting.
> 
> The chapter in which Bond hates that he has morals, and that Q... gets a bit un-Q-ish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to [Spring](http://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7) for editing. She's started parceling out her skills in the hopes that I won't fly off on a wild hare and post without warning, which has been working fairly well so far ;) (Note: You do NOT want me posting without warning, for those posts are full of errors and painful to read. So give thanks to Springbok. Love her.)

Panting perhaps more from the pure adrenaline rush than from exhaustion, Q rolled off the bigger man, not trying to get up but just sitting against the side of the couch.  “Well then,” he gasped, arching his neck a little with a wince as if he’d pulled something, “That was more excitement than expected.”

“I’d lecture you about taking risks, but I saw the phone,” 007 replied as gracefully as he could, putting aside his desire to yell at Q for being reckless.  There were protective instincts, and then there was proper gratitude for a partner preventing what would have been a terrible turn of events.  Before making his way over to the curtains (the decorative ropes designed to bind them would work on human limbs just fine), 007 gave Q a quick but careful look, deciding that Q’s continued look of discomfort wasn’t because he was hurt, but because his body was making a nuisance of itself.  “How are you doing?  Heroics aside.”

Q snorted at the last comment, then dragged a hand down over the lower half of his face, sighing out shakily.  Spots of color remained in his cheeks, and some of his hair was just starting to stick to his temples with sweat as his temperature continued to climb.  “Honestly?  I feel horrible, but that’s not as bad as what comes next, in which I’ll feel so bloody wonderful that logic might quit me entirely,” he admitted ruefully.  

Bond started binding up their victims one by one, as swiftly as he could at the reminder of how Q was a ticking time bomb at the moment.  “How much time do you have left before then, do you think?” he demanded to know warily.

Q rocked his head back against the couch, looking sick and shaky.  “I’m betting an hour at most.  I’d give you a more exact response but I can already feel parts of my thought processes getting irksomely foggy.”  Q’s face made a moue of distaste that was almost a pout, and he draped his slim arms across his folded legs where he still sat on the floor next to Fitzwilliams.  “This is already worse than my usual heats, and I’m a bit worried about how crazy I’m about to get,” Q added in a remarkable feat of understatement.  ‘A bit worried’ sounded like someone mulling over accidentally washing multiple colored shirts together, not the workings of one’s own body under atypical and less-than-perfect conditions.  

“We’ll get you through this, Q,” Bond soothed, finished tying and gagging Ivanovich and his guards and finally moving to the man by Q.  Getting closer, 007 had to mouth-breathe again, for what little good that did him.  Fortunately, at the same time, Q got distracted by the sight of a laptop on a nearby desk.  He craned his head, pale neck stretching in an elegant line, and then laboriously pushed himself to his feet to check it out.  His graceful saunter was now interspersed with almost drunken swaying, and the fine tremor in his muscles was becoming something of a shiver, but with a stubborn set to his face, he seemed able to type just fine.  While Q did whatever he was doing, 007 planned, setting his mind to their new problem: finishing this up and getting somewhere private and safe before the heat set in completely and totally.  If purging his system of suppressants really was railroading Q into a worse heat than usual, Bond definitely wanted controlled circumstances and no distractions as he made sure nothing went wrong.  

“This is Fitzwilliams’s personal laptop,” Q spoke up distractedly, eyes still on the screen and fingers flying over the keys, “I think that we can use what’s on this to put him away for quite some time, even discounting the fact that it holds a rather interesting pending transaction for some rather familiar missiles.  I’ve rewired the money transfer.  MI6 can deal with the cash later.”

Forever surprised and a bit unsettled by the amount of chaos Q could cause in just minutes with an internet connection, 007 glanced back from where he’d been peaking out the windows to check how high up they were.  Just the second story.  “Did you find out where he was storing them?”

“Indeed.”  Q put his hands down onto his lap and turned around with a tired smile, although behind his glasses his eyes were indelibly pleased.  “And I’ve sent MI6 the location. It should be handled by tomorrow - sooner, if 002 can be spared.  I think he’s in that part of Germany.”

If Q was saying ‘I think’ instead of ‘I know,’ then his thoughts were already getting scrambled, which made 007 more nervous than he wanted to admit - and he imagined that it had to be making Q quietly hyperventilate on the inside.  So, deciding to stave off any further anxiety, Bond merely accepted the news and nodded back towards the laptop, “Email M and tell her that we’ll handle things here, but she’ll have to send someone else to do a pick-up in the morning when all the guests are gone.”

Q’s brows furrowed.  “I beg your pardon?”

“There’s no way I can remove any of these bastards from the premises with all of the guests still here,” 007 explained candidly, aware of his own skills and their limitations, “and while I’d usually just wait until everyone left, I can’t - not with you in the state you’re in.”

“007, you don’t have to-” Q started to denounce the obligation.

Bond cut him off with a raised hand and a low, sincere voice, “I do, Q.  Not just because I promised to but because you’re my coworker… and my friend.”  He only stumbled slightly over the last descriptor, and was pleased to see something soft and pleasantly surprised flit across Q’s features.  Q settled in and just listened as Bond explained everything else, “Now, I’m going to go out there and start spreading a rumor that these nice men here decided to partake in some sexual activities.  Since Fitzwilliams paid for all of this, I doubt anyone will have the guts to disturb him, so they’ll still be here in the morning for whoever MI6 decides to send.”

A little smirk was playing at one side of Q’s mouth.  He rested an arm on the back of his chair and propped his chin against his palm to note dryly, “And by ‘sexual activities,’ you’re going to tell them that they lured your date, Quinn, in here for an orgy?”

James made a face, but realized there was no point in denying it, especially since Q seemed more amused than anything else - and certainly not offended.  “Probably something like that.  No one will have any reason to question it, because your scent is already around the entrance to the door, and rooms like these are generally sound-proofed with Beta ears in mind.”

“So when they don’t hear erotic moaning-” Q continued to discuss this as if it were the blandest thing in the world.  

“-They’ll just blame it on the thick walls,” finished Bond.  He narrowed his eyes, studying Q’s expression and wondering if the Quartermaster was teasing at his sensibilities on purpose.  Usually, 00-agents denied having sensibilities to tease, but they rarely made up lewd stories regarding their Quartermasters - while looking their Quartermaster in the eye.  James suddenly felt as if he were outlining some terrible line of fanfiction regarding his coworker’s life.  Shaking the thought off forcibly, 007 crossed his arms and tipped his chin towards the window, “After I finish up making sure no one thinks twice about where Fitzwilliams and Ivanovich are, you get to go out the window.  I’ll leave out the front door to avoid suspicion, and while everyone thinks you’re in here, I’ll collect you outside.  This window thankfully opens up over an alleyway.”  Bond grinned, adding shamelessly, “And I’m rather good at engineering bedroom escapes.”

~^~

The next part was easy by contrast, if 007 ignored the way he worried about Q for every second he wasn’t in the room with him.  He’d helped make the bedsheets into a handy rope, knowing that even a two-story drop could be tricky for someone not trained to stick the landing, and had then left Q lying on the settee with instructions to stay put and wait for 007 to throw a pebble against the windowpane like some sort of illicit lover.  Q had found that hilarious, although his laugh had been a bit manic and he was truly looking unwell.  Miserable, in fact, as he curled up on the settee while 007 dragged all of their prisoners to the bathroom and made sure they’d stay secure there even after they came to.  With that, 007 left, being sure to break off one of his lockpicks in the door’s lock to assure that even the most eager and curious wouldn’t be able to find out the truth beyond.  

Now, the only thing making 007’s job of rumor-spreading even mildly difficult was the fact that he clearly reeked of sexually viable Omega and was turning heads almost as badly as the Omega himself had.  Perhaps that made his lies more believable, because it didn’t take long to get the grapevine humming amidst the party, which was now in full-swing.  Assured that his job was done, 007 put on the facade of a scorned but hapless lover and stormed out, speeding away dramatically as soon as his car was brought around.  He didn’t go far before circling back, however, and then did a bit more speeding as he pulled up outside the desired alleyway.  Bond immediately picked out the window he wanted, his eyes noticing details even in the dark that non-Alpha eyes wouldn’t, so it was without hesitation that he picked up a small stone and gave it a good lob.  His aim was pleasantly good as well, and he smirked in a self-satisfied way as he waited the half-minute for the blinds to pull back and a familiar, dark-haired head to be visible.

Q must have managed to recognize him despite the darkness that had settled in, because soon the window was being opened and the make-shift rope of bedclothes being tossed out.  007 and Q had squabbled a bit over the risk of that being seen after the fact, but ultimately it had been decided that the late hour and the alleyway location would keep anyone from noticing it - at least, not before MI6 came to secure the area.  

His mood lightening now that the two of them weren’t stuck amidst a swarm of strangers, the mission starting to slough off like an old skin, 007 called up jokingly as Q maneuvered his way out the window with a death-grip of sorts on his cloth rope, “You’re just getting all sorts of exercise this evening, Quinn.  First tackling men twice your size, now climbing out of second story windows.”

“Laugh it up, 007,” Q groused, climbing down with all the gingerness and poor grace of a scared sloth, “Just be grateful that I do computers better than I do athletics, or you’d have no one to tamper with security footage and traffic lights when you get yourself up to your neck in trouble.”

Bond just chortled under his breath, but was considerate enough to step up closer to the building, where the tail of sheets left off a good meter or so above the ground.  Not surprisingly, Q did end up losing his grip before he was entirely on the ground, and James had to guide his short fall and then keep him from overbalancing after.  Q ended up swearing and flailing a bit, but Bond’s arms wrapped around him quickly, preventing further clumsiness.  The sounds of skidding shoes disappeared to be replaced by slightly rapid breathing on both their parts - Q from his little slip, James from the sudden rush of _Q_ to his senses.  

“I’m all right.  I’m all right,” Q repeated to assure both of them, and somehow James managed to let go of him, although he stuck closer than Q’s shadow as they trotted quickly to the car.  Q was already getting clumsier by the moment, and Bond only let relief finally wash over him once he’d seen his Quartermaster into the passenger seat and had closed the door on him.  Starting to truly grasp what a frenzy of risks they’d just taken this night, 007 had to take a minute to lean his forearms and head against the car.  They’d done it: they’d succeeded and survived.  Now he just had to get Q through the next twenty-four hours or so without any physical or emotional trauma.  

~^~

“Here we are, Q.  I may not get as much time here as I like, but it’s home,” 007 introduced his flat once they’d made it inside.  It had been something of an ordeal: Q was succumbing at a rapid pace, and 007’s senses were being overrun by all of the signals being sent his way.  So while Q’s body was demanding someone fuck it and Bond’s body was being roused to do just that, the two had to survive a too-long car-ride and a stumbling, uncoordinated walk up the three flights of stairs to where Bond’s flat occupied a whole floor.  

Q was quivering constantly now, some of it from his aberrant body temperature - which had 007 a little worried - and some of it from energy, as if he’d just had four cups of coffee and had forgotten how to keep himself steady.  At first, Bond had thought the cool night air would do him some good as they’d gone from car to building, but whatever chemical reactions were going on beneath Q’s skin, he was in no rush to seek out the cold even as sweat starting to darken his shirt.  Stumbling into Bond’s flat and turning his head this way and that like an owl in a new roost, Q belatedly noticed said sweat-stains, and looked down at himself with evident consternation.  “Drat,” he spat, and promptly began fighting with his tightly knotted tie.  

Taking a moment to gather his strength and calmness, knowing that he was going to need it tonight if he didn’t want to entirely ruin his working relationship with Q, Bond stepped forward after toeing off his shoes.  “Here, Q,” he offered as calmly as he could.  Q jolted as if he’d momentarily forgotten his presence, looking up with large but rather bewildered hazel eyes as the blond-haired man took his tie in hand and carefully undid it.  Meeting Q’s eyes levelly, 007 continued in the same easy tone, “Is it getting a little harder to think, Quartermaster?”

The title seemed to focus him, and the boffin swallowed, blinked rapidly, then wet his lips as he visibly gathered himself.  “I…  Yes.  Yes, it is.  I feel amazingly drunk right now.”

“You look like you’re burning up.”

“I think…”  This time Q squeezed his eyes shut and took in a few measured breaths as if to center himself and forcibly regain his scattering thoughts.  When he spoke again, his voice cracked only on the first word before steadying into something that sounded more like him, “I think I’m still all right, but this blasted heat is hitting me harder than any I can remember - since going on suppressants, that is.  My thoughts have never felt so scattered, and I feel a lot like the inside of my skull is turning into a kaleidoscope.  I’m…”  Q opened his eyes again; he looked scared for the first time.  “I’m losing the ability to think rationally, and I can _tell_.”

Easing Q’s tie off and dropping it on the floor, Bond placed both hands on Q’s shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze.  “That’s okay, Q.  You’re not here to think rationally - that’s what I’m here for, and I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.  It’ll fade.”  Since his voice seemed to be having a positive effect on Q’s tension, 007 went on, also rubbing his thumbs in little circles against the outer points of Q's collarbones where they winged up to kiss his shoulders.  “It’ll just last until the hormones get through your system, then you’ll be back to yourself again.”  Perhaps James would have been more worried, but one Omega he’d been with had suffered from severe blackouts during her heats - she remembered only about half of what went on.  Thankfully, she’d grown up this way, learning to handle it, and the only way James even knew about that particular quirk was because she’d told him, afterwards.  Apparently she was a rarity, but it gave 007 hope that what Q was going through was not actually a sign of severe medical danger but merely a variation in the intensity of this unplanned heat.  

Q was getting distracted again.  Even as his head turned, 007’s keen eyes saw the almost imperceptible widening of Q’s pupils, his body’s arousal doing a good job of tamping down on his anxiety.  Still a bit edgy as multiple emotional responses battled it out in his gut, Q backed up out of Bond’s grip, shuffling deeper into the room.  007 merely watched him for a moment, then turned his own footsteps towards the nearby bathroom to fetch a glass of water and an under-the-tongue thermometer to check for sure that Q’s body wasn’t cooking him alive.  “My space is yours,” he called out candidly, wanting Q to be reminded of his presence but also aware that he was accepted into what was essentially Bond’s territory - an Alpha’s territory.  It was so strange to look at his Quartermaster and think about the deeper, baser instincts that underpinned what it meant to be in the societal system of Alpha, Beta, and Omega, but for at least tonight, 007 was going to have to get used to it.  Q was off his drugs and he wasn’t going to be able to dodge the consequences, and he’d already accepted that.  

James had, too.  But he was rethinking how he’d planned to deal with it.  

His own shoes now missing (not so much missing as discarded seemingly at random across the sitting room), Q was padding curiously amidst Bond’s furniture, nostrils flared as he no doubt smelled James on everything.  Noticing Bond a teensy bit more quickly this time, Q turned on suddenly coltish legs but caught himself against the sofa.  “Sorry,” he murmured thickly, scrubbing one hand back through his hair and trying desperately to focus again.

“Just relax, Q.  You knew this was coming, right?” 007 soothed logically, stopping a pace away and extending the glass of water.  Q took it gratefully and downed the whole thing, if not because he was thirsty then because he knew that heats were a dehydrating business.  Even before he was done, however, his eyes tracked back to 007, the pupils swallowing more and more of the hazel irises by the second like a slow but steady eclipse.  Q’s reason seemed to be being eclipsed as well, because without warning, he dropped the empty cup in a sharp crack of shattering glass and launched himself at Bond without another moment’s hesitation.  

Even if James were wicked enough to consider telling other people about his one night with the Quartermaster, no one would have believed him, he was sure of it.   _Bond_ barely believed how quickly Q went from a slightly dazed, fidgety, frustrated boffin to a lightning fast creature with greedy hands and an even more demanding mouth.  007 made a faintly surprised noise even as he became the recipient of a sloppy but urgent kiss, and managed not to drop the glass thermometer even as he re-calibrated his balance to include the Omega now plastered to his front and clutching at his shirt.  Arousal surged up 007’s spine then settled like a forge’s steady heat in his groin, and he wrapped his arms around Q in kind out of reflex.  Just as one of Q’s hands let go in a frenzied search for the perfect handhold on Bond’s body, James suddenly switched up his own grip, spinning Q around, and the fight was on.  

Q in heat was a wildcat: for someone who spent nearly all of his life holed up in front of a computer, he wasn’t without muscle, and his lean body twisted with remarkable flexibility as he and 007 grappled.  It was more fun than James had expected when he’d determined to hold Q still long enough to get a thermometer in his mouth - even as Bond maneuvered them away from the broken glass, 007 was fighting back laughter.  Q, for his part, was beyond words, and only fought to escape for the barest handful of seconds before he started listening to whatever impulses were running the show now.  After that, it was impossible to tell if Q wanted to wriggle free or climb into Bond’s shirt with him.  After a whirlwind of traded grips and laughing breaths, however, 007 dropped back onto one of the chairs and used his superior weight to drag Q down with him.  As soon as he had Q sprawled on his lap, back to chest - a change in position that made 007 groan, his cock having a million things to say about the situation - 007 locked an arm about Q's middle to trap his arms at his sides.  

With his other hand, 007 popped the thermometer into the boffin’s mouth, having to cup Q’s chin and tip his head back forcefully to keep it there.  Q was breathing harder than the work-out demanded, and only fought Bond’s hold insofar as he tested it - then he groaned and relaxed back with a supple, unsubtle roll of his body that had Bond exhaling a sharp and guttural curse.  He had Q’s back flush to his chest, legs sprawled limply over his, Q’s head pulled back against his left shoulder, and if Q ground his arse down onto Bond’s lap any harder he was going to be in a lot of danger of losing his self-control.  Tightening his grip instead - feeling the way Q shivered and trembled at the show of strength, which sent a whole new thrill through 007 - Bond gritted out doggedly, “Health first… then we deal with the other stuff.”  

Somehow, Q had enough of his mind left to nod.  Little tremors went through his body with almost every heartbeat, quivers that 007 interpreted as urges to wriggle and move again, but either Q was taking back the reins of his own body or…  

Bond remembered their earlier talk about scent and the power it had over an Omega, a talk that had quite slipped his mind amidst the lustful haze that had quite infused his head by now.  The more Q smelled an Alpha nearby, the more he’d calm down, which was actually just what 007 wanted right now.  The house no doubt smelled safe, because no one but 007 ever came into it, but the scent would be old due to Bond’s long trips abroad - hence how riled up Q was.  Now, 007 curled Q in tighter to him, groaning at the contact and at the heady smell wrapping around his thoughts like a drug, but he also used his grip on Q’s jaw to tilt his head.  The thermometer wasn’t jostled, but 007 managed to get Q’s forehead tipped in against his neck, and he both felt and heard Q inhale deeply and let it out in a soul-deep sigh.  

Gently, Bond stroked Q’s elbow through his shirt, trying to ignore the fact that Q’s hands were wandering like mindless, curious octopi towards anything of 007 within reach.  “You’ll get what you need, don’t worry, Q,” 007 crooned, turning and rubbing a freshly shaven cheek against Q’s tousled hair and getting a closed-lipped mewl in return.  The Quartermaster was already at least a small measure calmer than before, less desperate.  His trousers were quite obviously tented, though, and 007 was doing no better with all of the pheromones in the air and hormones causing an equal racket _under_ their respective skins.  Q’s right hand dropped down to trace long fingers along his own leg, drawing Bond’s eyes and making it hard to calculate how long he’d been forcibly taking Q’s temperature.  When Q arched a little and reached further, down past his own thigh to scratch his fingernails against the inseam of 007’s trousers, James growled with feeling, “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that right?  Bloody…!”  

Patience had never seemed so much like a four-letter word.  Making a wounded noise low in his throat when Q’s hands continued to get up to mindless mischief, 007 plucked the thermometer out of Q’s mouth to look at it.  Q immediately twisted his head further, and 007 rumbled appreciatively and tipped his head back a little to invite a curious, warm mouth to his neck.  “Okay,” 007 spoke his verdict, giving the thermometer a better resting place than the water glass by stretching his arm to a nearby lamp-stand before depositing it there gently, “You’re not going to die.  Not from fever, at least, although there’s no way you run this hot naturally.”  Bond was pretty sure he was talking to himself: Q had contorted his frame as much as he could with Bond’s right arm pinning him around the chest, laying open-mouthed and tonguing kisses along the column of Bond’s throat while also obviously breathing in the smell of him.  Bond also had to grab one of the Quartermaster’s hands when it got… a bit too adventurous.  “Easy there, Q.  I know we discussed this, but you’re entirely out of your head now,” 007 chided in a decidedly strained voice.  He decided to keep talking, though, even if Q didn’t remember any of this in the morning, because he had to say it, “I have to be able to look you in the eye when we get back to MI6, and I know you were lucid when you gave me permission to fuck you through your heat-”  Just saying it made 007’s cock throb, and his head spun for a minute as even, white teeth scraped along his jugular.  Part of 007 screamed at him that he should not let anyone _near_ major arteries like that, but another part told the first part to go fuck itself, and suddenly everything was driving Bond’s libido up the wall again.  He moaned loudly and pushed up off the chair, holding tighter to Q, before getting himself reined in again and finishing off his doomed but stubborn sentence, “-But coerced consent is not how I want to remember something like this for the rest of my life.  Especially not with my Quartermaster.  Come on, Q, we’re going to try something different.”

While Bond felt resignation like the cancellation of Christmas in his self-centered cold heart, Q remained content and nonverbal, proof positive that the Quartermaster had left the building.  This was the heat talking, and Bond may as well have held an inebriated boffin in his arms.  It was so tempting…  “Why the bloody hell did I choose _now_ to grow morals?” 007 demanded of himself in an angry hiss before moving - and, once again, manhandling Q as well.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed the sexiness, as well as Bond's admittedly atypical way of dealing with a hormone-driven partner :) Even with Q giving consent before the fact, I figured that James would want to play it safe, even if '00-agent' and 'morals standards' are hard to use in the same sentence. In keeping with his character, therefore, Bond gets weird morals from the mean author!


	5. Wildcat on Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond had his morals firmly in one hand, and Q in the other... if he can balance both of them without committing some grave crime or losing his ever-loving-mind, 007 will call it a success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On another note, Dr. Harper returns in this chapter. Enjoy! ;)
> 
> On yet another note, this chapter was very nearly titled "Flesh From Your Own Heart." You'll see why at the end.

By the time Bond got off the chair, he had Q in his arms, bridal style.  Q was making it at once easier and more difficult to walk with him, because he was as clingy as a limpet and as horny as a… well, just about any mammal in heat.  007 understood the feeling, getting it all second-hand.  But with Q holding onto him so tightly with his nose burrowed against the collar of his shirt, 007 barely had to even keep a hold on him, and therefore opened the door to his bedroom easily.  Out of the entire apartment, this wasn’t actually the place that smelled most like him and he knew it - post mission, he rarely made it this far.  In fact, his usual routine ended with him finding either a pub or a lady-friend, and the former option generally lead to still more beds that weren’t his.  No, there was really only one room in the entire flat that he could depend on to alert Q’s nose to the undeniable presence of an Alpha, despite its outward sterility.  007 just needed to grab some bedding from the bedroom first.  

They were headed to the en suite bathroom.  

“I bet we make quite a sight,” Bond grunted conversationally, keeping one arm hooked under Q’s legs while his other dragged a heavy duvet behind them.  Q whined against his neck, getting more demanding even as he quite obviously got more uncomfortable, his body making demands that his mind was too foggy to properly answer.  That was one blessing: a saner Q in heat might have been aware enough to get into 007’s trousers.  Instead, the slim arms around Bond’s nape coiled tighter, one hand burrowing into his blond hair... and then Q bit him.  “Hey!”  

Fortunately, before Q got any more friendly with his teeth, they reached their destination.  007 had undergone entire missions that were easier than this, as he let Q’s legs dropped to the floor and then tried to accomplish just a few, seemingly simple tasks.  Everything was hampered by the ravenous Omega, though, whose eyes had grown alert the moment he’d taken a whiff of the bathroom - which, for all that it was spotlessly clean, had still seen a lot more of Bond than any other room in the flat.  Here was where he checked his wounds, stitched himself up better than he could on the road when he didn’t want to go into Medical, and on a good night, ended up puking after an alcoholic frenzy.  Bond reflected that right now, with Q underfoot and constantly tangled up in him with every move he made, this was probably the best memory he’d had in this necessary little room.  

“Bloody _hell_ , is this payback for all of those times I made your life difficult?” 007 snarled, more than a bit amazed at someone with a libido stronger than his.  Every single time he was with an Omega in heat, he was impressed all over again, but somehow in between he managed to forget just how harrowing the experience could be.  Of course, if this were anyone but Q, there’d be the added exhilaration of knowing he didn't have to hold back, but instead, Bond had to fight Q’s hands out from under his shirt and put the smaller man into a temporary headlock as he finished up what he was doing one-handed.  Somewhere along the line, Q also lost his glasses, but they looked unharmed where they sat on the bath-rug a short distance away.  Somehow, they’d also both lost articles of clothing, too, adding another skill to Q’s heat-induced list of new and shocking abilities - neither of them were naked, but Bond was down to his undershirt, trousers, and pants (his belt was M.I.A.), and Q was just in socks and pants.  It made the heat of Q’s skin even more apparent, and inviting in the same way that a fire was inviting after a lifetime in the cold, but 007…  miraculously... stayed focused.  

Q growled against Bond’s arm until he realized that if he angled his body just right, he was practically flush to Bond’s side - then the noise transformed into what could only be called a growl-purr, and 007 just stared at him.  “I hope that you remember some of this, because it’s going to be terribly boring if I have all of these stories about you and no one to embarrass them with,” he deadpanned, sure that even Q himself wouldn’t believe that half of this was happening.

Possibly the least believable part?  Bond’s latest accomplishment: the old-fashioned, claw-footed tub was now a nest, courtesy of the thickest duvet Bond owned and, coincidentally, some of their lost clothing.  

“Come on, Q, trust me,” Bond coaxed, feeling horny, frustrated, but also honestly rather tired.  Some of the sexually charged part of him, though, was starting to slide into a less urgent realm like the pain of a love-bite drifting into the white-space of an endorphin high.  “I know that you think you want me in you, but I have a feeling that you’ll regret that later, and I have an idea that will work almost as well.”  Something about the soothing, gentle tone of Bond’s voice seemed to work, because Q became slightly more manageable over the next few minutes - long enough for 007 to slide into the bathtub-nest and pull Q in on top of him.  It was a snug fit, with the porcelain shell lined with the thick bulk of the duvet, but the comfortable padding combined with knowing Q was close to him had 007’s anxiety levels dropping and a low, pleased sigh escaping his lungs.  

Q squirmed for a moment, all restless energy and sinuous limbs.  He seemed to vacillate between shaky and clumsy like someone on too many drugs - and swayingly graceful like a willow sapling.  Now, though, after a brief period of tangled limbs and irked noises from both parties, Q suddenly froze in place, nostrils delicately flared, and suddenly his pupils dilated to the point of swallowing all but the slimmest ring of hazel.  007 couldn’t stop his smile from spreading smugly towards his ears, recognizing the look and knowing that it portended a… slightly less hectic evening.  “There you go.  See?  You’ve got all of my attention you could ever want,” Bond used his words like a caress, watching triumphantly as Q’s eyelids lowered, his mouth tipped into an almost whimsical smile, and his body began to lose all of its tension in slow but steady increments.  007 assisted the process, pulling on Q’s shoulders until he wasn’t the only one lying down.  This wouldn’t negate the heat entirely, and Q still gave little restless moves like he had an itch under his skin, but James had done his best to literally wrap Q up in his Alpha scent.  Some Omegas - but not all - also had ‘nesting’ tendencies, or at least a very logical desire for a comfy roost when their body demanded marathon sex, and this seemed to satisfy any cravings for such a thing that Q might have, atypical as a ‘bathtub nest’ was.  

There was a lull in activity as Q’s senses and his instincts communicated, getting accustomed to the physical knowledge that he had an Alpha on hand, one that was wrapped around him in just about every way possible.  He also seemed to recognize that he was safe, or at least he recognized 007 in particular.  Fingers pulling at the material of Bond’s rumbled undershirt, Q nosed along from where Bond’s arm met his shoulder up to his throat again, before whining out actual words for the first time in nearly half an hour, “Bond… pl-please?  Please.”  

There was simply no way 007 could say no - not entirely, at least.  Growling in possessive pleasure, his best intentions not entirely defeated but definitely mitigated, James reached up to cup Q’s face, pulling it close, to where he could meet Q’s lips for a kiss.  It turned hungry immediately, Q licking into his mouth like he was ravenous for the taste, or for some secret that 007 kept hidden behind his teeth, and James let himself relax under the invited attack.  Q’s fingers dug into the muscles of his chest, and while Bond’s back stayed snuggled against the duvet, Q arched his upwards so that his too-hot skin got a kiss of the cooler air.  007 couldn’t resist the urge to reach up and drag his palm along the planes of Q’s ribs and flank, feeling the faintest dew of sweat over suede-soft skin.  He could also feel Q’s erection as the Quartermaster shamelessly rutted into Bond’s stomach, and James grinned into the kiss, knowing a million and one ways to help Q out with that while still not breaking his internal promise to withhold penetrative sex.

After all, there was a difference between ‘not taking undue advantage’ and ‘torturing his heat-crazed Quartermaster with sexual neglect.’

A bit inspired by their previous position on the couch, 007 put some of his strength to good use to turn Q over again, something purring in his soul when Q not only didn’t fight, but made a needy sort of whine as strong hands forced him to move.  Of course, the whining became more distressed when Q lost access to 007’s mouth, but before Q started seeking sexual satiation again, 007 ran a hand across his panting chest, tweaking a nipple into full hardness.  Mouth next to Q’s ear, 007 watched appreciatively as Q ran his own hands over his body and arched at the rough touch.  “You’re gorgeous, Q.”  Bond pressed a kiss against damp ringlets.  “If you remember nothing else from tonight, remember that.  Now…”  Bond’s other hand skimmed over Q’s left thigh before sliding in towards his body.  Q’s frame grew taut and still like a bow-string, throat convulsing in a thick swallow as 007 felt him through his pants, already damp with precum.  “...Let’s see if I can’t make this heat a little easier for you, hm?”

Now would usually be the point where Q cursed him for being a cheeky bastard, but instead Q keened, high and beautiful.  One of Q’s hands and one of Bond’s worked together to get the Omega’s pants out of the way, and 007’s calloused grip engulfed silky skin - and Q’s voice rose an octave before breaking in a choked gasp.  His head pushed back against the slope of muscle between Bond’s neck and shoulder, and the 00-agent pressed another kiss to Q’s nearby cheekbone before rubbing a thumb across the weeping head of Q’s cock and slicking down the rigid length of it.  

And that was how they spent the night: cuddled up together in a room that saw more of 007’s blood and stitches than Medical, 007 patiently and ardently bringing Q to completion again and again as Q’s refraction time and burning libido made wrecks of both of them, the 00-agent himself rutting up against Q’s body, which quickly necessitated the loss of more clothes.  A heat was always a messy business.  They could have cleaned up in the standing shower that also occupied the bathroom, but 007 was half-afraid that any attempts at sensible washing would end in someone getting hurt - or Bond losing the last of his tenuous self-control at the vision of Q naked and wet from head to toe.  

A few times, Q got particularly horny, and instead of demanding more than 007 felt safe giving him, Q either fingered himself (007 obliging to slick his fingers up with a great deal of saliva) while 007 watched, or else the wave of sexual excitement could be assuaged by 007 simply holding him close and rocking them until Q seemed to get lost in the simple touch and scent of his Alpha companion.  Bond, secretly, liked those moments better than the frantic, lustful motions within the snug confines of the tub, because while kissing and rubbing off against someone was great - as was voyeurism when Q knelt over him with his fingers at work, mouth hanging open with pleasure - it wasn’t often that 007 felt so needed as when Q burrowed into him and sighed as if expelling his very soul.  Q in his heat was almost unrecognizable, but Bond knew that these tactics of smell and touch could only be working as a substitute for a hard fuck if Q’s brain was at least a little connected to 007.  

Bond remembered stories from his childhood about ‘bonded mates’ and happy endings.  Science had disproved the first one long before 007’s career choices did a good job of making him jaded to the second, but it was a well-known fact that married couples ended up smelling like one another, and for an Omega with their sharp sense of smell, this was especially significant.  Resting himself while Q went into a temporary lull (plastered with his front to James’s, their bodies absolutely sticky in a way that would be terrible when the euphoria wore off), James rubbed his mouth and nose against Q’s tousled mess of hair, feeling… feeling a lot of things, sexual arousal actually being quite far down beneath the others on the list.  Appreciation at the sight of Q’s slim, lean body, stretched out over his; pride at the way Q was as limp as a cooked spaghetti-noodle because 007 was doing a good job keeping him pleased; fondness as he compared this naked, ragged Q with the pertly-dressed, professionally calm Quartermaster, and realizing that he liked them both equally if differently; fierce pride that Q had asked _him_ for help after agreeing to accompany _him_ on a mission when there were dozens of reasons why not to; and then a sort of melancholy sadness as he realized that this might be the only time this happened.  

As he stroked his fingertips gently and slowly over the sharp contours of Q’s shoulder-blades and down to the adorable dimples just above the swell of his arse, 007 carefully mulled over his emotions and did something that he did very, very rarely.  

He thought more than three days ahead and about more people than just himself.

~^~

It was good that 007 thought three days ahead, because Q was stuck in a heat-induced haze for two.  It was clear by the second day that Q hated it, too.  

The worst of it appeared to have hit that first night, with 007's unorthodox building of a cozy location making something unbearable into something manageable and even fun.  By morning, Q came out of it… a little.  It soon became clear that hormonal whiplash wasn’t all sunshine and blowjobs, as Q’s temperature went up to the point where he was pushing the boundaries of good health - 007 did call Dr. Harper then, and while the woman tried to be nosy about how Q felt now that he was ‘back to acting like a normal Omega should,’ she also gave James instructions on how to deal with the issue.  It was nothing life-threatening nor beyond the array of possible side-effects, so Q got a lukewarm shower (which meant, by extension, Bond got a lukewarm shower because Q didn’t want to stay there) and Dr. Harper got a new enemy.  After getting Q’s body temperature back down and then pinning him to the bathroom rug (spectacles transferred to a safer perch yet again) for a necessary snogging, 007 called Tanner.

“Hello?  James?” Tanner sounded part surprised, part curious, and part afraid to ask what this was all about.  

Q was asleep on the couch, played out but restless like a dog chasing rabbits in his sleep, and 007 stroked his hair where the Quartermaster’s head rested on his thigh.  “You’re in charge of problems between the staff of different departments, isn’t that right?” 007 asked immediately.  

Apparently Bond’s gentlemanly tone was setting off warning bells, because Tanner hesitated before admitting the truth, “Yes, that’s generally what being Chief of Staff means.  Why?  Is this about Q?”  Bond sensed the next question coming, so he simply propped his feet up on the nearby coffee-table and waited until Tanner queried worriedly, “Is Q all right?”

Since Tanner knew pretty much everything about Q anyway, James didn’t feel any compunctions about answering.  He settled his broad palm on the side of Q’s neck and thumbed soothingly at his jaw.  “He’s in heat, so you can inform Q-branch that he won’t be in for at least another day - nothing unexpected.  Use whatever excuses you feel are appropriate,” he amended the truth just a little, respecting Q’s choice to tell people whatever he wanted about the past twenty-four hours.  Since that privileged information included 007’s presence, James dropped his voice a few deadly octaves while still keeping his words friendly, “I’d be appreciative if my involvement didn’t go anywhere past this phone conversation.”

“I’ll have to tell M.”

Part of 007 wanted to argue about that, but since it was two of her employees supposedly fucking… perhaps it _was_ within her purview.  James decided to pick his battles.  “Tell her whatever you bloody well please,” he said with the kind of false cheer that probably was making Tanner wince on the other end.  Q wasn’t the only one stroppy this morning after a less-than-hot shower - Omegas in heat were closely followed by possessive, attending Alphas on the ‘hard to handle’ list.  “But I’m actually calling about something else.  I recall that you know Dr. Harper.”

Tanner was a quick study.  “Damn.  What did she do this time?”

James proceeded to detail his conversation with the woman, outlining her offensive behavior quite rationally and calmly, to the point where he was rather proud of himself for maintaining such a civil tone.  Only when he got to the end of the conversation did Bond’s omnipresent claws come out, “Oh, and Tanner?”

“Yes?”

“The next time I have to go to Medical, you might want to have another doctor on hand,” Bond said, hard, smooth, and chill like silk sliding off winter steel, all the while with a gentlemanly edge as if nothing were amiss as he finished, “Because I’ve taken a sharp dislike to Dr. Harper.”

“What level of dislike are we talking about?” Tanner asked with anxiety leaking out into his tone.

Bond’s smile escaped into his tone, too: cold and utterly humorless.  “The bone-breaking level.”  And with that, he hung up.  Q came out of his doze about ten minutes later, fidgety, irritable, and spoiling for either a fight or a fuck.  007 gave him something in between by pinning him to the carpet with sheer body-mass and paying back Q for every bite - he peppered them liberally all over Q’s body until the Quartermaster finally became pliant enough for 007 to play with him in gentler ways.  Going down on Q did a good job of negating the restless twitching and frustrated, semi-coherent sentences as Q’s body got what it wanted.  

For the most part, during that second day, Q’s rampant sex-drive segued into something more like a bad hangover.  Another call to Medical - with a nurse handling 007’s questions this time - informed 007 that this was tragically to be expected.  After the initial hormonal surge, there was always the chance that Q’s body would ‘get confused,’ as the nurse put it.  Being in heat was physically taxing, and since this heat had been brought on by medications (the addition of some and unexpected cessation of others), Q’s body didn’t know whether it should keep up what it was doing or return to normal to save energy.  These mixed signals led to sharp hormonal increases and irritating drop-offs not unlike a very mild form of drug-withdrawal, the nurse explained regretfully.  It also left Q physically uncomfortable, still very muzzy-headed, honestly cranky, and frustrated in a way that no amount of sex could have assuaged.  

Bond felt rather helpless towards two in the afternoon when he just sat and watched Q pace, the boffin still entirely nude but now with his hands clasped over his head like he was trying to force all of the thoughts in it together, muttering half-sentences like someone trying furiously to learn a new language - or remember an old one.  Words had been a problem all morning - a kind of temporary aphasia.  Q most definitely did not want to be touched at moments like this, no matter how erect his cock was, and 007 had learned to just sit back, watch, and have a glass of water and a thick, warm blanket ready for whenever Q calmed down.  To make matters worse, one of the states common in heats was lack of appetite, so with the exception of a few crackers and whatever else 007 could finagle him into eating, Q ran himself ragged without making up for it.  Biologically, this was because hunger would have distracted from the mating process, but now it just meant that Q’s abnormally drawn-out heat was starving him slowly.  Omegas who regularly experienced long heats often had to be watched carefully, and needed to be sure to eat copiously in the days preceding their expected time.  Q, at least, had been smart enough to nibble copiously on hors d'oeuvres at the party, something that 007 had barely noticed at the time but now saw as preparation for just a case like this.  He was glad that at least one of them had foresight and extensive knowledge about the finer details of heats.  

There _were_ some positive moments in day two, however, at least to Bond’s recollection.  He learned a few things.  For one, Q’s tastes in tea - he’d already known that Q had a variety of teas he liked, ranging from a general English Breakfast tea to something foreign with a name that 007 had yet to try and pronounce, but in all cases, Q was stingy with his sugar.  He added copious amounts of milk, but turned his nose up at excessive sweetness, being a connoisseur of taste instead.  Worried about Q running (or at least pacing and writhing) himself into the ground, 007 purposefully ignored that fact while hydrating the boffin, adding a copious amount of honey to the drink - and was shocked when Q purred right into the mug and drank it all down.  Perhaps it was some weird side-effect of the suppressant-purging drug, but James suspected that it was just Q’s body getting the better of his brain and realized that he _needed_ some sugar to burn.  Bond also learned that while Q absolutely hated being unable to talk straight or coherently express his thoughts, he was brilliant in other ways besides his brain, which was temporarily ‘out of order.’  Case in point, Q’s sense of smell was something of a marvel.  Bond could see him sniffing the air often, and on any occasion when 007 left the room while Q was dozing, James was entirely certain that Q followed him around the house by scent alone - once, literally, with his eyes sleepily closed.  Without his glasses, using sight was probably a terrible plan anyway.  The Quartermaster also sniffed out Bond’s hidden supply of digestives, and James couldn’t even be mad because at least Q _ate them_.  

The memories of Q swearing and complaining in halting, broken sentences _while naked_ and stalking all around 007’s flat weren’t exactly unpleasant memories either.  And neither were the quiet moments when Q was played out, 007’s arms and hands mildly sore from pleasuring his partner, and they both simply dozed together in a comfortable tangle.  

Bond called Tanner to check in for both of them once more that evening, apparently earning him points with M not only for dutifulness but, apparently, for discretion.  “No rumors are running around yet,” Tanner informed him almost cheerily as explanation when Bond asked why M was so happy with him.

Nonplussed, 007 replied, “I think that says more about your own secret-keeping than mine, although you clearly _did_ tell M.”

“True,” was Tanner’s unexpectedly candid answer, “but usually, you’re the type to crow about a conquest, and yet you’ve only called Medical and myself, and I’ve only told M so she knows why her Quartermaster is using up some holiday leave.  Careful, or M might send you to Psych just to be sure you haven’t suffered a concussion or personality switch or something.”  This time it was Tanner who hung up on Bond, but the 00-agent was unsure whether to be annoyed by that or laugh.  Shaking his head, he dropped his mobile off onto the side table and headed back towards the bed, where Q was starting to mewl in his sleep and make jerky little movements on the bed - all indications that he’d wake up soon and need some attention.  Probably of the sexual kind.  Five minutes later and Q was rubbing himself off against 007’s thigh and James was kissing the breath out of Q’s lungs with his gun-calloused fingers buried in hopelessly tangled dark hair.  

There were definitely some parts of this whole experience to savor.

~^~

It was noon the next day when Q woke up with an actual, thinking intellect behind his eyes.  “James?” he asked, voice raspy with sleep but no longer slurred or thick like his tongue wasn’t working with his brain anymore.  

They’d both actually been asleep on the bed this time, and if Q hadn’t been sans glasses, maybe he would have noticed the fact that he wasn’t alone a moment sooner.  As it was, he perhaps wasn’t one-hundred percent certain of the situation until the lump under the blankets next to him moved and made a vaguely querulous noise.  “Hmm?”

Q’s answer was a little bit less eloquent than his usual reparté as he narrowed his eyes on the moving lump and then widened them in realization: “Shit.”  The Quartermaster sat up, without swaying this time, and rubbed hard at his eyes before casting around, “Where are my glasses?”

“Uh…”  It actually took a moment to recall that, because Q hadn’t really worn them since the first night - fragile spectacles didn’t mix with beleaguered, heat-dazed Omegas.  007 managed to recall, however, “In the bathroom, I think.  Do you want them?”

“Yes, please,” Q said, even as 007 was disentangling from the blankets and getting out of bed to do the fetching.  The 00-agent noticed Q squinting at him with an almost comical look of consternation.  The Quartermaster was quick to voice the reasons behind the look, “You still have pants on.”  A glance down, still confused.  “ _I_ do _not_ have pants on.  How the buggering hell do you still have pants on?  What _day_ is it?”

“How about you save the questions until you can at least ask them in an orderly fashion,” 007 advised, even as he inwardly rejoiced at hearing Q’s cultured tones and clear diction again.  Q in heat was a spectacular sight, and utterly careless and gorgeous that way, but he wasn’t himself, and James hadn’t realized that he’d missed that.  “When I get back, if you ask those questions one at a time, I promise I’ll answer as best I can - starting with the fact that today is Sunday,” 007 assured blithely over his shoulder as he trekked barefoot to the bathroom.  

When he got back, Q was still sitting up and looking entirely awake for the first time in nearly thirty-six hours.  He also looked rather nervous, and took his glasses in silence, taking a bit more time than necessary to fit them over his nose and ears.  “Well then,” he said, clearly stalling.  007 merely took up a position at the foot of the bed, sitting as well, keeping his expression carefully mild and non-confrontational.  “I’ve noticed some… er… discrepancies.”

That wasn’t quite how Bond had expected their first coherent talk to start, but it was something.  007 raised one eyebrow and bent a knee up so he could claps his hands around it.  “Oh?”

“Yes.  I… well, that is to say…”  Finally, the Quartermaster just spat it out, looking 007 in the eye with clear bemusement, “Did you even have _sex_ with me?”

On any other occasions, 007 would have thought such a question coming from Q would render him a mass of laughter - seeing the genius in such a state of befuddlement certainly was a rare experience.  Right now, though, Q seemed so serious, and what he’d just undergone was such a personal and raw ordeal, that 007 answered with a bit of a grimace instead of the expected leer, “It depends on your definition.  I had a feeling that fucking you into the mattress would leave more of an _impression_ , as it were, so I stuck to safer things.”

“I did give you permission,” Q pointed out, still with a flummoxed expression.  Large hazel eyes blinked twice.  “Wait - what safer things?”

“What do you remember?” Bond decided to ask back instead, because this was possibly the most awkward conversation he’d had since his childhood days, and he wanted to know what he did and did not need to clarify before saying it.  He’d thought that he’d lost his ability to be embarrassed decades ago, but apparently not.

Q’s brows beetled, and he nibbled at the edge of one fingernail as he thought, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth as if going through a filing cabinet.  Apparently said files were a bit moth-eaten, because Q noted, “Damn, I am never taking drugs like that again.  I think I remember everything, but it’s all as tilted and skewed as a funhouse mirror.”  Q looked up suddenly, brows disappearing up under his mop of hair.  “Did you really make a duvet-nest in the bathtub?”

It was still there, actually, and suddenly 007 felt the urge to blush.  “The rest of my house is a bit… stale... and we’d already discussed how you’d be less frantic if you could smell me everywhere, so I improvised,” he replied when a simple ‘Yes’ didn’t seem to cover it.    

Perhaps 007 had sounded a bit transparently defensive of his nest, because something very like a surprised smile played at the corner of Q’s mouth.  “In that case, yes, I really do think I remember everything, with varying degrees of clarity.”  He somehow managed to add in exactly the same dry, unaffected tone, never losing the almost-smirk, “I also noticed that my arse didn’t exactly feel well-used, so I can believe what my memories are telling me.”  While 007’s eyes widened a bit and he made a choking noise (if he’d been drinking anything, he would have inhaled or spewed it), Q’s smile spread a bit and grew warmer, “Thank you for that, really, 007.  I think I can understand why you held back, and in hindsight, I’m grateful that you did.  Not that I doubt you would have been a great bed-partner, of course.”

Feeling on steadier ground now that things were out in the open - or perhaps he was calmer because for the first time in days, _Q_ was calmer, and also back to himself - James relaxed and returned Q’s friendly smile.  “Yes, but you wouldn’t have fully appreciated it,” he replied with a surprising lack of teasing or smug pride.  Q seemed to note the unexpected sincerity and cocked his head, studying it with curious eyes.  

For a moment, the two just sat there like that, as odd and different as a dove and a crow on the same wire, and yet both of them comfortable on 007’s mussed bed.  Finally, flashing his well-used, charming smile, 007 got up off the bed again and offered, “I’ll make breakfast if you call in to MI6.”  He nodded obligingly towards his mobile phone (locked by a simple code that he didn’t doubt Q could get through in seconds) nearby while ambling towards the door, also adding just as freely with a gesture towards the drawers and closet, “Wear whatever you like.  I wouldn’t even hazard a guess as to where our original clothes are.”

Playing the role of the unflappable, suave 00-agent, 007 strode out to do as he promised, not checking to see if he got Q to blush.  

~^~

Bond was done with both bacon and scrambled eggs by the time Q appeared.  It seemed that while Q and Bond had been at the party, Moneypenny had outdone herself: 007’s usually sparse larders had been filled with a neat note saying, ‘ _Have fun!  Don’t starve!  You owe me one_!’ stuck on his fridge with ‘ _Eve_ ’ signed in neat script on the little paper’s corner.  He hadn’t had time to make use of most of the food until now, save to make himself sandwiches during Q’s quieter moments.

Having heard the shower running, Bond knew that Q was clean now but that he’d also most definitely seen the duvet-nest.  Dressed in an open robe that was clearly too big for him and a pair of likewise-borrowed running shorts with the waistband clinging to his hips, Q was still toweling off his hair as he padded into the kitchen.  “I called MI6, and it seems they’ve cleaned everything up and both Mr. Ivanovich and Mr. Fitzwilliams are behind bars.  002 has already confirmed the location of the missiles as well.  I’m almost disappointed in how little we’ve been missed, but apparently someone has handled the whole thing rather well,” at saying ‘someone,’ Q eyed 007 like a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.  James demurred from giving anything away with his face, instead smiling back politely and taking some well-browned bread out of the toaster.  Apparently eager to rattle Bond in hopes of shaking some clues loose, Q continued, “I found the duvet in the bathtub quite charming, by the way.  And people say that Omegas are the ones with nesting tendencies.”

Approaching the table and putting plates in front of both Q and his own place, 007 cracked a crooked grin, noting mischievously, “You know, I’m not sure if you’re trying to flatter me or offend me.”

Q had the good grace to pinken around the cheeks and ears, and the sudden smile he flashed was disarmingly guileless.  “I’m sorry - that came out wrong.  I’m not charming by nature, outside of professional conversation, and I haven’t the faintest idea how to respond to someone making an entire nest for me.  Or doing everything else you’ve done for me.”  Perhaps eager to change topics now that he’d thought he’d put his foot in his mouth, Q eyed the food and admitted frankly but in a notably rushed tone, “God, I’m starving.”

Bond stifled a snicker, making sure that the side of his mouth that curled up was the side furthest from Q, lest the boffin suspect 007 of laughing at him.  Allowing the conversation change graciously, 007 sat down to eat, noting, “Well, you _have_ been surviving on highly sweetened tea and digestives.”

“That explains why my mouth tastes so rotten,” Q made a face, but also stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth to remedy the situation.  Perhaps he would have commented more on his change of tea preferences, but the food quickly consumed his entire attention even as he consumed it in equal measures.  007 refilled Q’s plate, hoping that that was a good idea considering the Quartermaster’s brief period of fast, but nothing untoward happened.  “Ah, that’s much better,” Q opined with clear happiness in his voice, leaning back in the chair with his hands loosely framing his full stomach.  

Having been done for awhile now, 007 just stayed where he was, lounging back as well and watching as he had been for the last fifteen minutes.  “I’m glad I won’t have to tell Medical that you starved to death.”

Q, head lolled back and eyes closed, curled his lip for a moment and snorted.  “Now wouldn’t that just take the cake?  I’d almost like to rub Dr. Harper’s nose in that.”  He affected a slightly deeper voice, presumably mimicking the blond-haired agent sitting next to him, “Yes, Dr. Harper, Q went through a heat like a normal, stereotypical Omega, only there was a slight problem - he wilted away from lack of nourishment.  Dearly sorry.  Know that he died in his natural state of being, in heat.”  Q snorted at the end to show that he really found the whole idea more funny than morbid, and James chuckled, too, while also deciding not to mention his little talk with Tanner about said doctor.  With any luck, Medical would soon be hiring another doctor with a better temperament and fewer prejudices.  

“Bond… I have to ask, just to be clear,” Q started speaking again after a moment of contented quiet, lifting his head and now taking on an entirely serious, but almost hesitant, tone.  His eyes were earnest as he fixed them on 007’s watchful blue ones.  The Quartermaster went on with a slightly pensive set to his mouth, “The only reason you didn’t fuck me was because the situation and pressures I was under precluded true consent.  Is that correct?”

There was no reason to lie, so without looking away or blinking, James nodded.  “Yes.”

“And no other reason?”  

Another silence followed the last question, with its almost indiscernible sound of desperation, of increased interest.  007 knew what to listen for in a person’s voice, however, and could immediately detect the vulnerable edge to Q’s words now, despite his professional approach.  Therefore, 007 took great pride in replying steadily, sincerely, and respectfully - and maybe with a little bit of a smile, “No, Q.”  To make his point clear, 007 added with less charm and more cheek, “It’s not everyday that I find someone smart _and_ good-looking.”

Q’s smile flashed across his face like a light turning on, brightening up his entire expression.  Flattery, when well-used, was really just a very fun form of a compliment.  “And whom you don’t have to hide your job from,” Q added in the same tone that James was using.

The agent barked a laugh, the last tension leaving him at this evidence that Q really was taking all of this well, without a bruised ego, tender feelings, or crippling embarrassment.  “Yes, that, too.  Q…?”

When Bond paused, uncertain for a moment more, the boffin simply waited, head cocking as he watched the minute emotions flitting across 007’s handsome face.  Perhaps he knew what Bond was going to ask; Q had always seemed to have a certain sense of precognition to him, at least insofar as he never seemed surprised  by anything a field agent did.  Reminding himself that they were both adults, and bolstering his courage with the memory of Q’s broad smile and relaxed fondness, 007 spoke in a softer tone than before, “Next time you go into heat - when you’re ready for it, and you go off your suppressants on your own schedule, instead of someone else’s - I’d be very honored if you’d spend it with me.  I can’t promise that I won’t be on a mission, but I can promise that I’ll work very hard to come back if you call.”  Perhaps not realizing how rare it was to hear a promise of obedience like that from a man of his nature, 007 went on as formally and candidly as before, “It would be very worth it to me, although I’d understand if you said no.”

Q had dropped his eyes, and was picking at the hem of his robe (Bond’s, actually) thoughtfully.  It hid his expression, although his tone was collected and definitely not negative when he spoke, “I’m not always pleasant to be around even in the rare heats I do have.  The stroppy moments that I _definitely_ remember from yesterday are liable to happen even under normal conditions.”

“I’m not in this just for a good time and free sex,” 007 admitted blatantly, rolling one shoulder in a shrug, “I can get that anywhere.  But I think you’d be someone nice to come home to.”

That got Q’s head to jump up, eyes surprised for the few seconds it took him to put on his poker-face again.  James did the same with his own features, but he did it because he was unused to making declarations like this - then again, he was equally unused to the prospect of having a relationship with someone that he wouldn’t have to keep any secrets from, someone who knew all of the wicked things he did, had done, and would do again at behest of Queen and country.  So he sat there and let Q study him, saying nothing more, because even these words had been as hard to pare away as flesh from his own heart.  

Finally, Q said, as softly as a moorland mist kissing his cheek, “I think we can try that.”

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly my favorite parts of this chapter are the moments where Q is an absolute wildcat (hence the title) and borderline impossible to handle... and the moment when he truly wakes up and wants to figure out the pants situation. I'm particularly proud of that part :3 
> 
> For those of you who read my other stories: Because grad school is taking up so much of my time, hopes for weekly postings are going out the window :P This fic will continue to be posted on weekends until it runs out, but after that, I might only manage monthly postings *very sad author face*


	6. A Moving Train in a Thunderstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything falls into sync, faults and all. Because Bond was serious about wanting someone to come home to, and Q was serious about not being stereotypically perfect. 
> 
> Or, a chapter that was almost named: 'Like Water and Grease-Fires'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone ready for the last wild ride of this chapter? :) And I've made sure to make it wild... and sweet... and sexy... and all of the tangled things that come with dumping a trained spy into a relationship with a saucy boffin. haha As the summary implies, they get along like water and grease-fires, and I wouldn't dare to write it any other way (~u^)

Epilogue

Three Months Later

~^~

Despite the leaps society had made in equality, the media still liked to depict the stereotypical domestic Omega, with his/her docile nature interspersed with Harlequin-worthy spans of lustful heats.

Being Q’s partner was nothing like that.  After their tag-team effort in arresting both Fitzwilliams and Ivanovich, Q had gone back on his suppressants, but after a month of saying nothing on the topic of either his heats or his sexual designation, the Quartermaster of MI6 was outed as an Omega as he started to go into a heat.  007 was, thankfully, in the country – grounded temporarily for a bullet-wound – and was quite shocked to be called into Q’s office, getting a strong whiff of pheromones as soon as he entered Q-branch proper.  Q was waiting for him, of course, as proper as ever, if perhaps a bit more dark-eyed and warm-tempered than usual.  But the Quartermaster explained quite calmly that after some thought (and a consultation with a new doctor in Medical, who had somehow been hired almost immediately after Q’s mission with Bond) he’d switched suppressants.  He was still taking them, because he knew that his body’s cycle was intolerably unpredictable, but instead of stretching his endurance to four months in between, he could expect a heat every two – something that still allowed for his workaholic tendencies but also fit more naturally into what his body wanted.

The new suppressants had different side-effects, but Bond and Q didn’t think about that until at least two days later.  They thought of very little at all, in fact, for the two days it took for Q to get the heat out of his system.

After that, there was no hiding that the Quartermaster was an Omega, and no effort was actually made to do so.  Bond had to admit that he’d never seen someone so supremely comfortable in their own skin as Q was, and it was rather thrilling to watch him return to work with all the efficiency of a mongoose after a cobra, while Bond was still remembering him snoring softly against his shoulder in bed just hours before.  Having heats definitely didn’t do anything to stop Q’s honestly terrifying level of efficiency back at work.  It had been nice to spend forty-eight hours of leave with a Q who was not only quite horny but also perfectly lucid – he wasn’t being overwhelmed by the backlash of unnatural drugs, and this time, when he gave Bond permission to fuck him silly, the 00-agent acquiesced without a pause.

A few people gave Q some trouble about his orientation, and more than a few indecent proposals were made.  James would have liked to say that he handled them all, but in reality, he was back out in the field almost immediately.  Fortunately, the Quartermaster of MI6 was quite capable of handling himself, and while physical altercations were not his forte, he was more than capable of ruining people’s lives if they proved unable to move into the twenty-first century where people were respectful of others, regardless of appearance, sex, or Alpha-Beta-Omega designation.  Q didn’t actually fire anyone, but by the time Bond came back next, a few people had quit out of contrition.  “Do I want to know what you did to those poor sods?” Bond asked, turning in a kit that was only half-destroyed – something of a record, really.

Q had merely smiled a congenial, almost whimsical smile, and said drolly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I’m simply fostering a healthy work environment.”

Another factor that kept people from patronizing their Omega boss or otherwise making snide remarks about the fact that he went into sex-driven heats was the aforementioned side-effects of his new suppressants.  His last suppressants had made him virtually Null for four months at a time, allowed him to slip into an intense but brief heat, and then repeated the suppressing process all over again on a regimental schedule – that was what had made it so easy to hide what he was.  All it took was to request a week off every four months (something that he could do quite easily, considering how he was otherwise married to his work and never left MI6), and no one was the wiser.  These new suppressants, however, were more natural.  Instead of forcing his body to do as it was told, they merely nudged it along – and when two months rolled around, they allowed his body to nudge back.  This give-and-take permitted a certain amount of leeway before and after heats in which Q was technically still himself, but his moods became legendary.  If anyone in MI6 had illusions about all Omegas being pleasant and subservient and docile, just a few minutes with pre-heat or post-heat Q swiftly cured them of that.

“Q.”  Bond still smelled of a long day’s travel, the only thing hiding the gunpowder scent of him being the hours spent on a plane and the mustiness of the taxi-cab after.  Nonetheless, he came straight to Q-branch to wait patiently behind Q’s desk-chair, the texts still in his phone letting him know that he was needed.

Q was hunched over a dismantled rifle, hair a bit more hectic than usual as if he’d been pulling at it, and everyone else in Q-branch was giving him a wide berth like fishes around a shark.  Although Q didn’t look like a very intimidating shark, with his rumpled cardigan and his lavender button-down with its sleeves rolled up but still oil-stained, everyone – 007 included – had learned that Q was as feisty as a damp cat when his body started preparing for a heat.  Some times were worse or better than others.  In fact, there were some months when Q was exactly like every stereotype, but that was almost eerie enough to make Bond nervous, since he’d gotten used to touchiness and grouchiness, and honestly preferred a Q who snarked at him.

As Q did now, twitching and freezing without turning around.  Instead of returning the greeting, he chose his own topic of conversation to start in on: “You smell terrible.”

“The fact that your sense of smell is getting hyperactive means that you should perhaps head home then,” 007 went on, unruffled.  “The texts on my phone from no less than twelve MI6 employees informing me that you’re becoming the next Godzilla also mean that you might be done for the week.”

When Bond circled to lean his hip against the side of Q’s desk, the Quartermaster turned his head and wrinkled his nose fastidiously at him, but didn’t let go of his project yet.  “Just let me finish this,” he bargained, quickly turning back to the gutted weapon that he was further taking apart, but not before Bond noticed the feverish sheen to his eyes or the spots of color high on his cheeks.  

James reached out and captured Q’s chin, turning him back and noticing the way that Q took a deep inhale – despite the claims that 007 smelled bad, Q seemed to relax at the warm scent of him.  “Q,” Bond said again, looking him squarely in the eyes.

“Yes?”

“You’re going to make your minions cry if you stay much longer, and your projects can wait.  Come home with me.”  Lowering his voice so that he didn’t have to share his words with anyone else, 007 smiled and went on, “I might even take a shower if you take it with me.”

Something avaricious entered Q’s eyes, a look that wasn’t exclusive to his heat, but definitely took on an extra level of intensity every other month.  “So long as I get to choose the shampoo.”

“You can choose whatever you like.”

Bond never knew what to expect from Q during a heat, but he was glad that he was the one who got called when the event arose.  It felt like a tether back to the familiar world, something that he could count on – not to mention look forward to.  A part of Bond had worried that he’d get bored with a domestic relationship like this, but it turned out that dating the Omega Quartermaster of MI6 was anything but dull, especially since Q never seemed to go into the same kind of heat twice.  Sometimes he came into it like a hurricane, all movement and energy, and on those days, things got broken in James’s flat and they ended up having sex on the carpet in the living room with their clothing half torn off.  Bond would be half-dressed, pumping into Q powerfully and steadily, while Q gasped impatient things at him and tried to kick off the last leg of his trousers while socked feet slid against the backs of Bond’s knees.  

Sometimes, Q was quieter and more edgy, less like a cat in heat and more like some sort of nervous, nesting creature – in those cases, Q wanted company more than he wanted sex, and while he would grumble antisocially and fidget terribly like a bird refusing to roost, he’d eventually be coaxed into sliding onto Bond’s lap on the sofa.  From there, they’d sometimes just watch the telly, Q bundled in blankets with his nose finding its way to the lee of Bond’s neck as if his sense of smell needed constant reassurance that the Alpha was there – the other option was that Q’s itch for sexual intercourse would overcome his ‘nesting anxiety’ and they’d make love slow and sweet on the sofa, the Quartermaster rising and falling over Bond’s lap with the agent’s hands stroking and guiding his hips.  Q’s body would stay close, and 007 would praise it and reassure it with touches of his mouth, calming whatever it was in Q that had gotten so unsettled.  Bond got used to the sensation of spending himself inside Q while the boffin clung to him, knees flush to Bond’s hips, arms locked behind his neck, and mouth exhaling a long, catching sigh right into the shell of his ear as Q came almost silently.

Q still had heats, on the rarest of occasions, that actually harked back to the first that he’d shared with Bond.  They were unsettling, as Q seemed out of his head and dazed, and those were always the heats where James treated his partner with the most wariness and care.  He had blanket permission to do pretty much anything with Q’s body by this point, so long as it all stayed within the realms of things they’d done before, but with Q about as verbal as a mute and alternating between very frustrated and very clingy, James was always reminded of someone who couldn’t give consent.  After a few post-heat arguments on the matter, Bond was finally convinced that Q trusted him, wanted him, and wouldn’t be hurt if they had sex while Q was… a bit out of his head.  “This is why I’m always on suppressants,” Q commented at one point, after just such an episode, where he’d said a total of four words in an entire weekend while his body continued to go through waves of arousal.  Bond had made good use of some of the sex toys in the house, using them on Q, once again having a hard time crossing that line of chivalry that he’d drawn arbitrarily in the sand at the start of this.  Now feeling relaxed since his Quartermaster was back and talking, 007 arched an eyebrow until Q elaborated, “Not all of us Omegas can be blessed with sensible, dependable heats, both in terms of timing and in terms of just what we’ll do.  If I weren’t medicated, I fear that we’d have far more repeats of this past weekend.”  Q made a face, but after sipping at his breakfast tea, he commented with a distant, musing look in his eyes, “That vibrator was nice, though.”

Q was always full of surprises.    

He didn’t mention until later - quietly, as they both shared a refreshingly dull shower, hands familiar but not carnal - that not all Omegas were as lucky as him to have a sensible, dependable person to watch over them when they were out of their heads.    

The most interesting heats, by far, were those in which Q was pricklier than a cactus but still hot and bothered in the _worst_ way - or best, depending on how you looked at it.  Those were the days that very nearly called on Bond’s combat skills, and it was indecently thrilling to not know from one moment to the next whether Q was going to kiss him or slap him, encourage him or snap at him.

This was one of those heats.  Bond managed to wrangle Q back home (‘home’ being Q’s flat during normal days, Bond’s flat during heats) amidst much glaring and sharp remarks, and the action of getting them naked and into the shower was something between a striptease and an honest-to-god fight.  Clothing _was_ torn.  Bond gained a nasty set of fingernail scores down his right arm, but still held onto Q hard enough to bruise in return as they barged into the spray of Bond’s walk-in shower, Q cursing him between kisses but then backing down to suck Bond’s lower lip into his mouth like a grudging apology.  It brought the predator out in both of them, a character trait that was common for a man like 007 but only came out rarely in Q – and James adored it.  He could feel his adrenaline pumping, and his cock was hard with it in between them, a perfect match for Q’s eagerness as Bond pushed a bit more until Q’s shoulder-blades came to a halt against the wall, everything covered in water and steam.  Q’s hair, plastered to his head already by his quick pass under the shower-head, hung in messy ringlets over his face, dripping over their joined mouths in a gentle, constant patter while Bond’s bulk blocked the majority of the spray.  

Q pushed back into the kiss hard enough that it was nearly a bite, and James growled, low and primitive and threatening.  In response, the Quartermaster laughed, which opened his mouth up for a tongue eager to both taste him and shut him up.  Fortunately, Q was pleased enough with the increased contact between their bodies that he didn’t bite said intruding tongue, instead humming around it and calming down for a few seconds.  It was a cycle that would repeat, with tiny lulls of patience and calm between crackling storm-clouds of near-violence where it was hard to tell if Bond was seducing a lover or fighting a naked enemy.  Both were exciting possibilities.  

Holding Q to the wall with his body, 007 proceeded to make a mess of Q’s neck in the short time he had at his disposal before Q’s feisty side reared its head again.  He grinned in between love-bites when he heard Q’s yelp of surprise turn into a low, throaty groan, and nudged Q’s chin up to suck a deep bruise right over his Adam's apple.  “That settles it,” 007 said, making his tone light and teasing even though his voice had dropped to a husky pitch, “You’ve officially mine for the weekend.  You don’t own a scarf thick enough to hide these.”

Q slapped ineffectual at Bond’s side, somehow finding a posh, offended tone to accuse, “Agent Bond, are you hickeying up my neck?”

Bond snorted and went back to his work, trailing down the cords of Q’s neck from the back of his right ear (Q absolutely keened when he did that, sucking hard) down to the prominent wing of his collarbone.  “If the answer to that question isn’t already obvious,” 007 answered, lips moving against wet skin, “then there’s really no hope for you.”

That triggered another round of wildness, and before he knew it, Bond could hear his own wild laughter ringing off the shower stall, even as he secretly thanked all of his training - because if Q had decided to act like this around anyone short of a 00-agent, the two of them would have fallen and gotten seriously injured.  As it was, Bond could keep his footing on the top of a moving train in a thunderstorm, so a bit of minor grappling in the shower was barely enough to test his balance.  He kept Q upright along with him.  

Needless to say, they got a lot messier before they got cleaner.  But Bond no longer smelled of anything but soap and Q by the time they exited the shower.  

Lying on the bed, the heat in the house turned up per Q’s request and allowing them both to sprawl naked on the covers and let the air dry what their towels had missed, 007 watched his fascinating partner without fear of reprisal.  Q was stretched out on his side, dozing, his body and temper presently sated.  He also had a truly impressive trail of love-bites cascading between his neck and shoulder, and 007 just barely resisted the urge to reach out and touch them.  The only reason he stopped was because even that small touch would doubtlessly rouse Q again, and right now… Bond just wanted to look at him.  

007 was not the relationship type.  His life was about as stable as a sinking ship at all times, and he had a track-record of either killing his lovers or finding that they were out to kill him.  A stable, trusting persona that did _not_ make.  And yet here he was, just sharing a quiet moment with a man who was not only his coworker and friend but also his partner in just about the most monogamous fashion that 007 could offer.  The words ‘monogamy’ and ‘James Bond’ usually went together about as well as water and grease-fires, but he felt contented now, relaxed and pleased enough that he could have purred.  As he lounged with his weight on one elbow and his Alpha-sharp eyes cataloguing every angle and curve of Q’s body (something he’d done a million times but somehow never got old), 007 felt… at home.

A man like Bond resisted roots, but Q didn’t bind him with roots.  A man like Bond killed people and then lied to cover it up and hide that side of himself, not particularly because he was ashamed of what he did for Queen and country, but because any sane person would find that part of him unpalatable.  Q knew what he did, however - every shadow and nuance, every white lie spoken and black grave dug - and accepted the entirety of James as a matter of course, because Q had a sketchy job, too.  His job was to make men like Bond even deadlier, and to keep them alive and active so that they could go out and spy another day when a vindictive world wanted them wiped off the face of the earth.  Bond didn’t have to hide part of himself from Q - and Q didn’t bother to hide any of himself in return.  

Of course, Bond meant that figuratively, but he couldn’t help a lewd little smirk as he appreciated Q’s lack of _physical_ hiding as well.  Q naked was a glorious thing. 

Q’s nose twitched and one eye opened, squinting a little without glasses.  His voice was groggy but rife with dry suspiciousness, “I can _smell_ all of the thoughts tangling together in your head.”

Bond cut back his responding guffaw into a chuff of air instead, so as not to offend his bedmate by laughing at his accusation.  Smiling cheekily, 007 finally gave in to the impulse of earlier, reaching a finger out and running it purposefully down the sleek line of Q’s neck, being sure to add just enough pressure so that Q felt the marks.  “Are you sure that it’s not just my sex-drive you’re smelling?” he joked, but couldn’t hide the warmth in his voice.  

Arching into the touch but also hissing at the awakened ache of rose-petal bruises, Q gripped Bond’s forearm and pulled it close so that he could mouth at his inner wrist, the gesture made semi-threatening with teeth.  His body was waking up again.  “Well, there’s that, too,” the Quartermaster admitted as he rolled invitingly over onto his back - the risky proposition of a cat baring its soft underbelly.  Would one get a purr or would one get the claws if they reached out to stroke?  Bond was weighing the benefits and the risks with mounting eagerness when Q startled him by adding, a bit more softly, “But my nose is awfully sharp, you know, not only with these gentler suppressants but also because of my heat.  You smell…”  Still holding Bond’s hand, Q flattened it out against his own chest, ostensibly so that he could look down and play with the agent’s scarred fingers and trace the tendons of his powerful, capable hand.  Ostensibly.  To Bond, it was a show of vulnerability, as he felt the heartbeat thumping away beneath the palm of his hand, racing and resting with each ebb and flow of emotion.  It raced a bit faster as Q finished speaking, but not with a lie, by 007’s expert judgment, “...Happy.  You smell like my soap and that damned gun oil that probably runs through your veins, but you also smell happy.”  Lifting his chin as if challenging Bond to defy his words, Q switched abruptly to a lofty tone and went on, “Now that we’ve had this sappy moment, I think that I’d like to go back to enjoying my bi-monthly holiday.”

Bond smiled, and instead of answering verbally, he rocked forward and leaned his mouth into Q’s, kissing him slow and sweet instead of diving right back to where they’d started.  So far as declarations of love went, it was pretty subtle, but Bond could feel Q’s heart jump beneath his palm and knew that his Omega partner had gotten the gist of it.  

‘ _I love you,’ ‘Thank you_ ,’ and many other unspoken things sweetening the edges of Bond’s mouth and warming the gentle stroke of his tongue, the two of them followed Q’s suggestion, 007's muscular weight sliding over Q’s slimmer frame.  

Of course, as soon as 007 was finished loving on Q, the Quartermaster shoved him off the bed, and from there the fight was on.

  
The End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story cannot be ended without giving credit where it is due: "A man like Bond resisted roots, but Q didn’t bind him with roots" was a beautiful line by the Great and Wonderful [MinMu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MinMu/pseuds/MinMu), who probably has her fingerprints in ever story I have, even if I don't always come out and say it. She and my betas make up a team that I could not survive without. <3 
> 
> Grad school is still devouring my free time, but hopefully everyone enjoyed one more story before my postings become more sporadic! (I'm shooting for 1x monthly...)

**Author's Note:**

> Note that I use dynamic/orientation/designation interchangeably. This is for no particular reason, but each word (in this story) means essentially the same thing, and refers to one's status as Alpha, Beta, or Omega.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tinker, Tailor, Quartermaster, Spy [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217913) by [SomethingIncorporeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal)




End file.
